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1877 


WESTERN  WINDOWS 


AND 


OTHER    POEMS. 


BY 


JOHN   JAMES    PIATT, 

AUTHOR    OK    ''the    LOST    FARM,"    ETC. 


BOSTON: 
JAMES    R.  OSGOOD   &   COMPANY, 

Late  Tickuor  &  F'ields,  and  Fields,  Osgood,  Sz  Co. 
1877. 


Entered  accoi-ding  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  tho  year  1867,  by 

JOHN   J.    PIAT'i", 

ID  the  Clerk'F  Office  of  the  District  ('ourt  of  the  United  States,  for  the 

Southern  District  of  Oliio. 


DEDICATION. 


Cincinnati,  Ohio,  Sept.,  1868. 

My  dear  Mr.  Prentice: 

I  owe  you  many  of  those  debts  that  one  friend  can  only  pay  anothe" 
(and  never  pay  in  full)  out  of  his  heart ;  please  to  think  my  dedication 
of  this  book  an  acknowledgment  of  them.  The  poems  in  the  present 
volume  have,  with  a  few  exceptions,  been  under  cover  (and  under  fire, 
too,  for  that  matter,)  before ;  but  they  are  here  massed,  so  to  speak 
"for  a  general  review,  doubtless,"  will  you  say? 

Many  of  the  pieces  in  this  collection  are  suggestive  to  me  of  the 
hours  when  I  was  associated  with  you  in  a  companionship  which  must 
always  seem  very  dear  to  me  when  I  recall  it :  this  is  a  merit  which 
I  may  find  in  them  without  blame,  I  am  sure. 

With  many  wishes  for  your  health  and  happiness,  I  remain, 

Very  afFeftionately, 

Your  friend, 

J-  J-  P- 
Geo.  D.  Prentice,  Esq_., 

Louh'vUh,  Ky. 


%i 


CONTENTS. 


PACK 


Dedication, » 

Western  Windows. 

Western  Windows, u 

The  Mower  in  Ohio,  i^ 

Reading  the  Milestone,  ig 

The  Pioneer's  Chimney, lo 

Fire  Before  Seed,  ^o 

King's  Tavern, ^.. 

Fires  in  Illinois, ,6 

Riding  to  Vote, ^o 

Land  in  Cloud, a^ 

Sunshine  and  Firelight. 

Rose  and  Root, aj 

The  Sunshine  of  Shadows, a8 

Higher  Tenants, ro 

New  Grass, c^ 

Outgoing,  ^5 

The  Blackberry  Farm, en 

The  Morning  Street,  62 

The  Lost  Horizon, 6^ 

Antaeus, 5y 

5 


CONTENTS. 

FACE 

One  of  Two, 7^ 

The  Old  Man  and  the  Spring  Leaves, 1'^ 

The  Master  Key, 75 

Parting,  7^ 

The  Monk's  Vision  of  Christ, 79 

The  First  Fire, ^^ 

Taking  the  Night  Train,  ^5 

Leaves  at  my  Window, °7 

Charity  at  Home, 9° 

Marian's  First  Half- Year, 9^ 

Firelight  Abroad, 95 

A  Lost  Graveyard, 9^ 

At  Evening, ^°° 

The  Unheard  Bell, 102, 

The  Dark  Street, io4 

Quatrains, '°5 

The  Golden  Hand, lo? 

The  Grave-Angel, 109 

The  Buried  Ring,  "o 

At  Christmas  Eve, 112, 

Sundown, ^'5 

White  Frost, "7 

Passengers, ^^° 

Foresight  of  Fate,  12,0 

To  One  in  a  Darkened  House, 12.1 

The  Birthdays, 122. 

To  Grace  at  Christmas, 1-6 

The  Last  Fire, 128 

To  my  Brother  Guy, 13' 

Resurrection, I34 

6 


CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

Moonrise, ^37 

To  a  Child, 139 

The  Blue  Bird's  Burial, 14° 

Sleep, 144 

Frost  on  the  Panes, I45 

To  the  Lares,  ^47 

B.  M.  P., "48 

For  a  Gravestone, ^49 

The  Sight  of  Angels, 15° 

Sonnets. 

My  Shadow's  Stature, IS3 

My  Nightmare,  154 

To  a  Poet  on  His  Marriage, 155 

The  Book  of  Gold,  157 

Travelers,  IS9 

Anniversar)', 160 

Twofold, 161 

A  Bust  in  Clay, 162 

Mirage, 163 

September, 1 64 

The  Week,  165 

The  White  Lily,  166 

Awake  in  Darkness, 167 

The  Child  in  the  Street,  168 

Five  Years. 

The  Bronze  Statue 171 

Honors  of  War, 172 

A  Sabbath  in  July 174 

The  Nests  at  Washington, 175 

7 


CONTENTS. 

PAGB 

Sonnet  in  1862, lyg 

The  Ballad  of  a  Rose, lyo 

The  Open  Slave-Pen, 183 

The  Dear  President, 186 

To  R.  C.  S., 189 

The  Unbended  Bow, loo 

Footsteps  Returning. 

Riding  the  Horse  to  Market, 195 

The  First  Tryst, 200 

The  Buried  Organ, 201 

Two  Patrons, 204 

Genius  Loci, 205 

Apart, 207 

After  a  While, 208 

"To ,'• 210 

Melancholy, 212 

Folded  Down, 213 

The  Love-Letter, 216 

Confidants, 217 

The  Deserted  Smithy, 218 

Fallen  Leaves, 221 

An  Echo, 223 

In  Odtober, 224 

The  Birds  of  Longing, 225 

The  Grave  of  Rose, 227 

Moths, 228 

Steps  of  Ghosts, ^ 229 

The  Strange  Organist, 231 

8 


WESTERN    WINDOWS. 


WESTERN  WINDOWS. 

Crimsonikg  the  woodlands  dumb  and  hoary, 
Bleak  with  long  November  winds  and  rains, 

Lo,  at  sunset,  breathes  a  sudden  glory. 
Breaks  a  fire  on  all  the  western  panes! 

Eastward  far  I  see  the  restless  splendor 

Shine  through  many  a  window-lattice  bright ; 

Nearer  all  the  farmhouse  gables  render 

Flame  for  flame  and  melt  in  breathless  lisfht. 


o 


Many  a  mansion,  many  a  cottage  lowly. 
Lost  in  radiance,  palpitate  the  same 

At  the  touch  of  Beauty  strange  and  holy. 
All  transfigured  in  the  evening  flame. 


Luminous,  within — a  marvellous  vision — 

Things  fiimiliar  half-unreal  show ; 

Li  the  effluence  of  Land  Elysian, 

Every  bosom  feels  a  holier  glow. 

11 


WESTERN   WINDOWS. 


Faces  lose,  as  at  some  wondrous  portal, 

Earthly  masks,  and  heavenly  features  wear ; 

Many  a  mother,  like  a  saint  immortal. 
Folds  her  child,  a  halo'd  angel  fair. 


12 


THE   MOWER  IN  OHIO. 

JUNE,    HDCCCLXIY. 

The  bees  in  the  clover  are  making  honey,  and  I  aiu 

making  my  hay: 
The  air  is  fresh,  I  seem  to  draw  a  young  man's  breath 

to-day. 

The  bees  and  I  are  alone  in  the  grass:  the  air  is  so 
very  still 

I  hear  the  dam,  so  loud,  that  shines  beyond  the  sul- 
len mill. 

Yes,  the  air  is  so  still  that  I  hear  almost  the  sounds 

I  can  not  hear — 
That,  when  no  other  sound  is  plain,  ring  in  my  empty 

ear : 

The  chime  of  striking  scythes,  the  fall  of  the  heavy 
swaths  they  sweep — 
Id 


THE   MOWER   IN   OHIO. 

They  ring   about   me,   resting,   wlien    I    waver  laalf 
asleep ; 

So  still  I  am  not  sure  if  a  cloud,  low  down,  unseen 

there  be, 
Or  if  something  brings  a  rumor  home  of  the  cannon 

so  far  from  me : 

Far  away  in  Virginia  where  Joseph  and  Grant,  I  know, 
Will  tell  them  what  I  meant  when  first  I  had  my 
mowers  go ! 

Joseph  he  is  my  eldest  one,  the  only  boy  of  my  three 
Whose  shadow  can  darken  my  door  again,  and  lighten 
my  heart  for  me. 

Joseph  he  is  my  eldest — how  iiis  scythe  was  striking 

ahead ! 
William  was  better  at  shorter  heats,  but  Jo  in  the 

long-run  led. 

William  he  was  my  youngest;  John,  between  them, 

I  somehow  see. 
When  my  eyes  are  shut,  with  a  little  board  at  his 

head  in  Tennessee. 
14 


THE   MOWER  IN   OHIO. 

But  William  came  tome  one  morning  early,  from  Get- 
tysburg, last  July 

(The  mowing  was  over  already,  althougli  the  only 
mower  was  I:) 

William,  my  captain,  came  home  for  good  to  his  mother; 

and  I'll  be  bound 
We  were  proud  and  cried  to  see  the  flag  that  wrapt 

his  coffin  around; 

For  a  company  from  the  town  came  up  ten  miles  with 

music  and  gun: 
It  seem'd  his  country  claim'd   him  then — as  well  as 

his  mother — her  son. 

But  Joseph  is  yonder  with  Grant  to-day,  a  thousand 

miles  or  near, 
And  only  the  bees  are  abroad  at  work  with  me  in  the 

clover  here. 

Was  it  a  murmur  of  thunder  I  heard  that  humm'd 

again  in  the  air? 
Yet,  may  be,   the  cannon   are   sounding   now  their 

Onward  to  Bichmond  there. 
15 


THE   MOWER   IN   OHIO. 

But  under  the  beecli  by  the  orchard,  at  noon,  I  sat 

an  hour  it  would  seem — 
It  may  be  I  slept  a  minute,  too,  or  waver'd   into  a 

dream. 

For  I  saw  my  boys,  across  the  field,  by  the  flashes 

as  they  went. 
Tramping  a  steady  tramp  as  of  old  with  the  strength 

in  their  arms  unspent; 

Tramping  a  steady  tramp,  they  moved  like  soldiers 

that  march  to  the  beat 
Of  music  that  seems,  a  part  of  themselves,  to  rise 

and  fall  with  their  feetj 

Tramping  a  steady  tramp,  they  came  with  flashes  of 

silver  that  shone. 
Every  step,  from  their  scythes  that  rang  as  if  they 

needed  the  stone — 

(The  field  is  wide  and  heavy  with  grass) — and,  com 

ing  toward  me  they  beam'd 
With  a  shine  of  light  in  their  faces  at  once,  and — 

surely  I  must  have  dream' d ! 
16 


THE   MOWER   IN   OHIO. 

For  I   sat  alone   in   the  clover-field,  the  bees  were 

working  ahead. 
There  were  three  in  my  vision — remember,  old  man: 

and  what  if  Joseph  were  dead  1 

But  I  hope  that  he  and  Grant  (the  flag  above  them 

both,  to  boot,) 
Will  go  into  Richmond  together,  no  matter  which  is 

ahead  or  afoot! 

Meantime  alone  at  the   mowing  here — an   old  man 

somewhat  gray — 
I  must  stay  at  home  as  long  as  I  can,  making  myself 

the  hay. 

And   so   another   round — the   quail   in   the   orchard 

whistles  blithe — 

But  first  I'll  d.'ink  at  the  spring  below,  and  whet 

again  my  scythe. 
2  17 


READINO   THE   MILESTONE. 

I  stopp'd  to  read  the  Milestone  lierej 
A  laggard  school-boy,  long  ago ; 

I  came  not  far — my  home  was  near — 
But  ah,  how  far  I  long'd  to  go! 

Behold  a  number  and  a  name, 

A  finger.  Westward,  cut  in  stone : 

The  vision  of  a  city  came, 

Across  the  dust  and  distance  shown. 

Around  me  lay  the  farms  asleep 

In  hazes  of  autumnal  air. 
And  sounds  that  quiet  loves  to  keep 

Were  heard,  and  heard  not,  every -where 

I  read  the  Milestone,  day  by  day: 
I  yearn'd  to  cross  the  barren  bound. 

To  know  the  golden  Far-away, 

To  walk  the  new  Enchanted  Ground! 
18 


THE   PIONEER'S   CHIMNEY. 

We  leave  the  highway  here  a  little  space — 
(So  much  of  life  is  near  so  much  of  death : ) 
The  chimney  of  a  dwelling  still  is  seen, 
A  little  mound  of  ruin,  overgrown 
With  lithe,  long  grasses  and  domestic  weeds. 
Among  the  apple-trees   (the  ancestors 
Of  yonder  orchard  fruited  from  their  boughs) — 
The  apple-trees  that,  when  the  place  was  rough 
With  the  wild  forests,  and  the  land  was  new, 
He  planted:  one,  departed  long  ago. 
But  still  a  presence  unforgotten  here. 
Who  bless'd  me  in  my  boyhood,  with  his  hands 
That  seem'd  like  one's  anointed.     Gentle,  strong, 
And  warm'd  with  sunny  goodness,  warming  all. 
Was  he,  familiar  by  the  reverend  name 
Of  Uncle  Gardner  in  our  neighborhood: 
His  love  had  grown  to  common  property 
By  ties  that  Nature  draws  from  man  to  man, 
And  so  at  last  had  claim'd  the  bond  of  blood. 

19 


THE   pioneer's    CHIMNEY. 


He  was  an  elder  in  the  land,  and  held 
His  first  proprietary  right,  it  seem'd, 
From  Nature's  self;  for,  in  an  earlier  day, 
He  came  with  others,  who  of  old  had  reach'd 
Their  neighbor  hands  across  New  England  farms, 
Over  the  mountains  to  this  Western  Land — 
A  journey  long  and  slow  and  perilous. 
With  many  hardships  and  the  homesick  look 
Of  wife  and  children  backward ;  chose  his  farm, 
Builded  his  house,  and  clear'd,  by  hard  degrees, 
Acres  that  years  ago  were  meadows  broad. 
Or  wheat-fields  rocking  in  the  summer  heat. 


'O 


His  children  grew,  and  son  and  daughter  pass'd 
Into  the  world  that  grew  around,  and  some 
Into  that  world  which  evermore  unseen 
[s  still  about  us,  and  the  graveyard  where 
Their  bodies  slept  (a  few  half  sinking  stones, 
A  stranger's  eyes  would  hardly  see  them,  show 
Seventy  rods  yonder  in  the  higher  ground) 
Gave  still  a  tenderer  title,  year  by  year. 
To  the  dear  places  earn'd  by  earlier  toil. 


Meanwhile  the  years  that  made  these  woody  vales 

h  c 

20 


An  eager  commonwealth  of  crowding  men 


THE   pioneer's   CHIMNEY. 


Pass'd,  one  by  one,  and  every  thing  was  changed; 
And  he,  whose  limbs  were  like  the  hickory's  when 
He  came  with  life's  wrought  vigor  here,  was  changed : 
He  heard  the  voice  that  tells  men  they  are  old. 
Yet  not  the  less  he  moved  his  usual  rounds, 
Walk'd  his  old  paths;  not  idle,  sweated  still 
With  scythe  or  sickle  in  the  hay  or  wheat; 
Follow'd  his  plow  when  in  the  April  sun 
The  blackbird  chatter'd  after  and  the  crow 
Far-off  look'd  anxious  for  the  new-dropp'd  corn; 
And  gave  the  winter  hours  their  services. 
With  sheep  abroad  on  slopes  that,  slanting  south, 
Breathe  off  the  snow  and  show  a  warming  green, 
With  cattle  penn'd  at  home  or  bounding  flail: 
So,  not  forgetting  social  offices 
Throughout  all  seasons,  (gaining  so  the  love 
That  went  acknowledged  in  his  common  name,) 
He,  like  the  Servant  in  the  Parable, 
Doiug  his  duty,  waited  for  his  Lord. 

The  chimney  shows  enough  for  memory. 
And,  it  may  be,  a  stranger  passing  close, 
If  thoughtful,  well  might  think  a  tender  thought 
Of  vanish'd  fireside  faces,  in  his  dream 
Suddenly  lighted  by  a  vanish'd  fire. 

21 


THE    PIONEER  S    CHIMNEY. 

And  should  tlie  api^le-trees  that  linger,  loth 
To  end  their  blossoming,  attract  his  eye, 
Their  fragrance  would  not  pass  unrecognized 
For  deeper  gifts  than  fragrance.     He  is  gone 
Who  planted  them,  and  thirty  years  are  gone. 
Now,  if  you  loolc  a  quarter -mile  away, 
Beyond  the  toll-gate  and  its  lifted  sweep, 
You  see  a  prouder  house — not  new  nor  old — 
Beneath  whose  later  roof  no  spirit  dwells 
That  had  its  tenure  here:  a  stranger  holds 
The  secondary  ownership  of  law. 

It  is  a  story,  common  though  it  seem, 
Tender  and  having  pathos  for  the  heart 
Which   knows,   but  will   not  know,   that    he  who 

says 
"My  own,"  and  looks  to-day  on  willing  fields, 
And  sets  his  family  tree  in  trusted  ground, 
To-morrow  hears  another  answer  "Mine." 
Listen,  if  you  will  listen.     It  is  hard 
To  go  an  alien  from  familiar  doors 
When  we  are  young,  to  wrestle  where  we  go, 
And  win  or  lose  exulting — we  are  strong; 
But  it  is  pitiful  when  weak  and  old, 
When  only  for  the  near  in  life  we  seek, 

22 


THE   pioneer's   CHIMNEY. 

And  heaven,  yearn'd  after,  is  not  tliought  of  far. 
To  lose  our  shelter  and  to  want  for  rest. 

Of  Uncle  Gardner's  children  three  were  dead — 
Yonder  they  lie.     Their  mother  and  two  with  him 
(Two  youngest:  one  a  hoy  of  fourteen  years, 
His  latest  child — a  girl  three  years  heyond) 
Breathed  in  his  close,  contented  atmosphere; 
An  elder  daughter,  wedded  years  hefore, 
Lived  far  away  in  watery  Michigan; 
His  eldest  son — and  the  first-born  of  all — 
Thrived  as  a  merchant  in  the  city  near, 
Had  thriven,  at  least,  or  so  'twas  said,  and  he 
For  some  keen  chance  had  got  the  old  man's  will 
To  be  his  bond.     The  father  pledged  the  land — 
Willing  for  the  grown  man,  yet  for  the  hoy 
And  for  his  girl  at  home  regretfully. 
Deeming  the  chance  a  rash  one.     From  that  day 
He  wrought  his  daily  labors  ill-content, 
And  with  a  trouble  in  his  countenance, 
That  would  not  put  a  false  face  on  his  heart. 
To  things  familiar  came  a  subtle  change. 
The  brook  that  long  ago,  companion-like, 
Had  grown  acquainted  with  his  solitude. 
And,  later,  made  him  music  when  he  walk'd 

23 


THE   PIONEER  S   CHIMNEY. 

And  led  his  children  through  the  pasture-ground 
Up  to  the  haying  or  the  harvest-gap, 
A  noisy  mimic  of  their  prattled  words, 
Now  seem'd  to  lift  a  stranger's  face  at  him, 
Wondering  why  he  came  there,  who  he  was, 
Or  murmur'd,  with  a  long  and  low  lament, 
Some  undercurrent  of  an  exile's  song 
That  is  not  on  his  lips  but  in  his  heart. 
Nothing  was  as  it  had  been:  something  vague, 
That  Present  of  the  Future  which  is  born 
Within  the  bosom,  whispering  what  will  be. 
Met  him  and  follow'd  him,  and  would  not  cease 
To  meet  and  follow  him:  it  seem'd  to  say 
"  The  place  that  knew  you  shall  know  you  no  more." 
And  oftentimes  he  saw  the  highway  stirr'd 
With  slowly-journeying  dust,  and,  passing  slow, 
The  many  who  forever  in  our  land 
Were  going  farther,  driven  by  goads  unseen, 
Or  not  content  and  looking  for  the  new; 
And  then  he  thought  of  how  in  those  dear  days 
He,  too,  had  ventured,  and  again  he  saw 
With  steadfast  eyes  forgotten  faces,  known 
When  he  was  young,  and  others  dear  to  him 
From  whom  he  parted  with  regret  but  firm 
In  the  strong  purposes  which  build  the  world: 

24 


THE   pioneer's   CHIMNEY. 

Thouglit  of  his  consolation — she  most  dear 
Was  with  him,  they  most  helpless  with  him,  too, 
For  whom  he  sought  a  newer  world  of  hope : 
"But  I  am  old,"  he  murmur'd,  '-she  is  old," 
And  saw  his  hand  was  shaken  like  his  thought. 

Such  were  his  troubled  fancies.     When  he  slept, 
In  his  slow  dreams — with  lagging  team,  the  last 
Of  many  that  in  yonder  meadows  foal'd 
Grew  and  became  a  portion  of  the  place — 
Journeying  far  away,  and  never  more 
Reaching  his  journey's  goal,  (a  weary  road 
Whose  end  came  only  with  the  waking  day.) 
He  seem'd  to  pass,  and  always  'twas  the  same: 
Through  new-built  villages  of  joyous  homes, 
Homes  not  for  him,  by  openings  recent-made, 
But  not  for  him,  by  cultivated  farms 
Of  other  men — and  always  'twas  the  same. 
Then,  when  he  woke  and  found  the  dream  a  dream, 
And  through  his  window  shone  the  sun  and  brought 
The  faint  rich  smell  of  the  new-tassel'd  corn, 
More  fragrant  from  the  dew  that  weigh'd  it  down, 
He  murmur'd  of  his  fields — "For  other  men; 
They  are  not  mine.     The  mortgage  will  be  closed ; 
The  mortgage  goes  wherever  I  shall  go." 
3  25 


THE   PIONEER  S    CHIMNEY. 

So  pass'd  tlie  quarter  of  a  year,  and  so 
The  old  man,  burden'd  witli  Ms  little  world, 
Felt  it  upon  his  shoulders,  stooping  down, 
Bent  more  with  this  than  every  other  year. 
And  summer  pass'd  to  autumn:  in  his  door 
He  sat  and  saw  the  leaves,  his  friends  of  old. 
Audible  in  the  sunshine,  falling,  falling, 
With  a  continuous  rustle — music  fit 
For  his  accompanying  thought.     At  last  it  came, 
The  blow  that  reach'd  his  heart  before  it  came, 
For  all  was  lost:  the  son  whose  risk  he  placed 
Both  on  his  children's  home  and  on  his  heart 
Was  ruin'd,  as  the  careless  worldlings  say — 
Ruin'd  indeed,  it  seem'd,  for  on  his  brain 
The  quick  stroke  flash'd :  for  many  years  the  son 
Breathed  in  a  world  in  which  he  did  not  live. 

The  old  man  took  the  blow  but  did  not  fall — 
Its  weight  had  been  before.     The  land  was  sold, 
The  mortgage  closed.     That  winter,  cold  and  long, 
(Permitted  by  the  hand  that  grasp'd  his  all 
That  winter  pass'd  he  here,)  beside  his  fire. 
He  talk'd  of  moving  in  the  spring,  he  talk'd 
(While  the  shrill  sap  cried  in  a  troubled  blaze) 
Like  one  whose  life  was  not  all  broken  down, 

26 


THE   pioneer's   CHIMNEY. 

Cheerfully  garrulous,  with  words  that  show 
False  witnesses  of  hope  and  seeming  strength 
When  these  are  gone  and  come  not.     In  the  spring, 
When  the  fii-st  warmth  had  brooded  every-where, 
He  sat  beside  his  doorway  in  that  warmth, 
Watching  the  wagons  on  the  highway  pass, 
With  something  of  the  memory  of  his  dread 
In  the  last  autumn;  and  he  fell  asleep. 
Perhaps  within  his  sleep  he  seem'd  again 
Journeying  far  away  for  evermore, 
Leaving  behind  the  homes  of  other  men. 
Seeking  a  newer  home  for  those  he  loved, 
A  pioneer  again.     And  so  he  slept — 

And  still  he  sleeps:  his  grave  is  one  of  those. 

His  wife  soon  joined  his  sleep  beside  him  there. 

Their  children  Time  has  taken  and  the  world. 

The  chimney  shows  enough  for  memory, 
The  graves  remain;  all  other  trace  is  gone. 
Except  the  apple-trees  that  linger,  loth 
To  end  their  blossoming.     In  restless  moods 
I  used  to  wander  hither  oftentimes, 

27 


THE    pioneer's   chimney. 

And  often  linger'd  till  the  twilight  came, 
Toucli'd  with  the  melancholy  breathed  by  change; 
And  something  in  the  atmosphere,  I  thought, 
Remain'd  of  hours  and  faces  that  had  been. 
Then,  thinking  of  the  Past  and  all  I  knew 
And  all  remember'd  of  it — most  of  him 
Whose  vanish'd  fireside  blazed  so  near  me  here — 
My  fancy,  half  unconscious,  shaped  the  things 
Which  had  been,  and  among  the  quiet  trees 
The  chimney  from  its  burial  mound  arose; 
The  ruin'd  farm-house  grew  a  quiet  ghost — 
Its  walls  were  thrill'd  with  murmur-music,  humm'd 
By  inner  voices  scarcely  heard  without; 
And  from  the  window  breathed  a  vaporous  light 
Into  the  outer  mist  of  vernal  dark. 
And  lo !  a  crowd  of  sparks  against  the  sky 
Sprang  suddenly,  at  times,  and  from  the  wood 
(The  wood? — no  wood  was  here  for  forty  years!) 
Bark'd  the  shrill  fox  and  all  the  stars  hung  bright. 
Till,  busy  with  the  silence  far  away, 
(And  whether  heard  or  heard  not  hardly  known,) 
First  indistinct,  then  louder,  nearer  still, 
And  ever  louder,  grew  a  tremulous  roar; 
Then,  sudden,  flared  a  torch  from  out  the  night. 
And,  eastward  half-a-mile,  the  shimmering  train 

28 


THE    PIONEER  S   CHIMNEY. 

Hurried  across  tlie  darkness  and  the  dream, 

And  all  my  fantasy  was  gone,  at  once — 

The  lighted  window  and  the  fireside  sound: 

I  saw  the  heap  of  ruin  underfoot, 

And  overhead  the  leaves  were  jarr'd  awake. 

Whispering  a  moment  of  the  flying  fright. 

And  far  away  the  whistle,  like  a  cry, 

Shrill  in  the  darkness  reach' d  the  waiting  town. 

29 


FIRE  BEFORE  SEED.* 

How  bright  to-night  lies  all  the  Vale, 
Where  Autumn  scatter'd  harvest  gold 

And,  far  oif,  humm'd  the  rumbling  flail 
When  dark  autumnal  noons  were  cold ! 

The  fields  put  on  a  mask  of  fire, 

Forever  changing,  in  the  dark ; 
Lo,  yonder  upland  village  spire 

Flashes  in  air  a  crimson  spark ! 

I  see  the  farm-house  roofs  arise. 
Among  their  guardian  elms  asleep  : 

Redly  the  flame  each  window  dyes. 

Through  vines  that  chill  and  leafless  creep. 

*  It  is  customary  in  some  portions  of  the  TVest  to  rake  the 
last  year's  stubble  of  corn  into  windrows  and  burn  it  preparatory 
to  breaking  the  ground  in  Spring  for  a  new  planting.  This  burn- 
ing is  generally  done  after  nightfall:  its  effect  on  the  landscape 
these  lines  were  intended  to  describe. 

30 


riEE    BEFORE   SEED. 

Along  the  lonely  lane,  that  goes 
Darkening  beyond  the  dusky  hill, 

Amid  the  light  the  cattle  doze 
And  sings  the  'waken'd  April  rill. 

The  mill  by  rocks  is  shadow'd  o'er, 
But,  overhead,  the  shimmering  trees 

Stand  sentinels  of  the  rocky  shore 

And  bud  with  fire  against  the  breeze ! 

Afar  the  restless  ripple  shakes 

Arrows  of  splendor  through  the  wood. 
Then  all  its  noisy  water  breaks 

Away  in  glimmering  solitude. 

Gaze  down  into  the  bottoms  near. 

Where  all  the  darkness  broadly  warms 

The  priests  who  guard  the  fires  appear 
Gigantic  shadows,  pigmy  forms  ! 


The  enchanted  Spring  shall  here  awake 
With  harvest  hope  among  her  flowers 

And  nights  of  holy  dew  shall  make 
The  morniDg  smile  for  toiling  hours. 
31 


riBE   BEFORE   SEED. 

Behold  the  Sower's  sacrifice 

Upon  the  altars  of  the  Spring ! — 

O  dead  Past,  into  flame  arise  : 
New  seed  into  the  earth  we  fling  ! 
32 


KING'S  TAVERN. 

Far-off  spires,  a  mist  of  silver,  shimmer  from  the 

far-off  town; 
Haunting  here  the  dreary  turnpike  stands  the  tavern, 

crumbling  down. 

Half-a-mile  before  you  pass  it,  half-a-mile  when  you 

are  gone, 
Like  a  ghost  it  comes  to  meet  you,  ghost-like  still  it 

follows  on. 

Never  more  the  sign-  board,  swinging,  flaunts  its 
gilded  wonder  there: 

"Philip  King" — a  dazzled  harvest  shock'd  in  west- 
ern sunset  air! 

Never,  as  with   nearer   tinkle   through   the   dust   of 

long  ago. 
Creep   the    Pennsylvania  wagons   up   the   twilight — 

white  and  slow. 

33 


KINO  S   TAVERN. 


With   a   low,  monotonous   thunder,   yonder   flies   the 

hurrying  train — 
Hark,    the   echoes   in   the  quarry! — in  the  woodLand 

lost  again  ! 


"O"- 


Never  more  the  friendly  windows,  red  with  warmth 

and  Christian  light, 
Breathe  the  traveler's  benediction  to  his  brethren  in 

the  nisht. 


'O' 


Old  in  name  The  Haunted  Tavern  holds  the  barren 

rise  alone — 
Standing  high  in  air  deserted,  ghost-like  long  itself 

has  o;rown. 


&' 


Not  a  pane  in  any  window — many  a  ragged  corner- 
bit: 

Boys,  the  strolling  esorcisors,  gave  the  ghost  their 
notice — "Quit." 

Jamestown-weeds  have  close  invaded,  year  by  year, 

the  bar-room  door. 
Where,  within,  in  damp  and  silence  gleams  the  lizard 

on  the  floor. 

84 


KING  S   TAVERN. 


Through  the  roof  the  drear  Novembers  trickle  down 

the  midnight  slow; 
[u  the  Summer's  warping  sunshine  green  with  moss 


the  shingles  grow. 


Yet  in  Maying  wind  the  locust,  sifting  sunny  blossom, 

snows. 
And   the  rose-vine   still   remembers  some   dear  face 

that  loved  the  rose: 

Climbing  up  a  Southern  casement,  looking  in  neg- 
lected air; 

And,  in  golden  honey-weather,  careful  bees  are  hum- 
ming there. 

In  the  frozen   moon   at  midnight  some  have  heard, 

when  all  was  still — 
Nothing,    I    know!      A   ghostly   silence    keeps    the 

tavern  on  the  hill ! 
35 


FIRES   IN  ILLINOIS. 

How  bright  this  weird  autumnal  eve — 
While  the  wild  twilight  clings  around, 

Clothing  the  grasses  every-where, 
With  scarce  a  dream  of  sound ! 

The  high  horizon's  northern  line, 
With  many  a  silent-leaping  spire, 

Seems  a  dark  shore — a  sea  of  flame — 
Quick,  crawling  waves  of  fire  ! 

I  stand  in  dusky  solitude, 

October  breathing  low  and  chill. 

And  watch  the  far-oflf  blaze  that  leaps 
At  the  wind's  wayward  will. 

These  boundless  fields,  behold,  once  more, 
Sea-like  in  vanish'd  summers  stir ; 

From  vanish'd  autumns  comes  the  Fire — 
A  lone,  bright  harvester ! 
36 


FIRES    IN    ILLINOIS. 

I  see  wide  terror  lit  before — 

Wild  steeds,  fierce  herds  of  bison  here, 
And,  blown  before  the  flying  flame. 

The  flying-footed  deer! 

Long  trains  (with  shaken  bells,  that  moved 
Along  red  twilights  sinking  slow) 

Whose  wheels  grew  weary  on  their  way, 
Far  westward,  long  ago ; 

Lone  wagons  bivouack'd  in  the  blaze. 
That,  long  ago,  stream'd  wildly  past; 

Faces  from  that  bright  solitude 
In  the  hot  gleam  aghast! 

A  glare  of  faces  like  a  dream, 

No  history  after  or  before. 
Inside  the  horizon  with  the  flames. 

The  flames — nobody  more  ! 

That  vision  vanishes  in  me, 

Sudden  and  swift  and  fierce  and  bright; 
Another  gentler  vision  fills 

The  solitude,  to-night: 
37 


FIRES   IN    ILLINOIS, 

The  horizon  lightens  every-where, 
The  sunshine  rocks  on  windy  maize  ; 

Hark,  every-where  are  busy  men, 
And  children  at  their  plays  I 

Far  church-spires  twinkle  at  the  sun, 
From  villages  of  quiet  born, 

And,  far  and  near,  and  every-where. 
Homes  stand  amid  the  corn. 

No  longer  driven  by  wind,  the  Fire 
Makes  all  the  vast  horizon  glow, 

But,  numberless  as  the  stars  above, 
The  windows  shine  below  I 
38 


RIDING   TO   VOTE. 

THK  OLD  DEMOCRAT  IN  THE  WEST, 

Yonder  the  bleak  old  Tavern  stands — the  faded  sign 

before, 
That  years   ago   a   setting    sun   and   banded  harvest 

bore  : 
The   Tavern   stands  the  same  to-day — the  sign   you 

look  upon 
Has  glintings  of  the  dazzled  sheaves,  but  nothing  of 

the  sun. 

In    Jackson's    days   a   gay   young    man,   with    spirit 

hale  and  blithe, 
And  form  like  the  young  hickory,  so  tough  and  tall 

and  lithe, 
I  first  remember  coming  up — we  came  a  wagon-load, 
A   dozen    for   Old    Hickory — this    rough    November 

road. 

39 


RIDING   TO   VOTE. 

Ah !  forty  years — they  help  a  man,  you  see,  in  get- 
ting gray; 

They  can  not  take  the  manly  soul,  that  makes  a  man, 
away ! 

It 's  forty  years,  or  near :  to-day  I  go  to  vote  once 
more ; 

Here,  half  a  mile  away,  we  see  the  crowd  about  the 
door. 

My  boys,  in   Eighteen  Sixty — what!    my  boys?  my 

men,  I  mean  ! 
(No  better  men  nor  braver  souls  in  flesh-and-blood 

are  seen !) 
One   twenty-six,   one   twenty-three,   rode  with   their 

father  then  : 
The  ballot-box  remembers  theirs — my  vote  I  '11  try 

again  ! 

The  ballot-box  remembers  theirs,   the  country  well 

might  know — 
Though  in  a  million  only  two  for  little  seem  to  go  ; 
But,  somehow,  when  my  ticket  slipp'd  I  dream'd  of 

Jackson's  day: 
The  land,  I  thought,  has  need  of  One  whose  will  will 

find  a  way! 

40 


RIDING   TO   VOTE. 

'■He  did  not  waver  wlien  the  need  had  call'd  for 
steadfast  thought — 

The  word  he  spoke  made  plain  the  deed  that  lay  be- 
hind it  wrought;" 

And  while  I  mused  the  Present  fell,  and,  breathing 
back  the  Past, 

Again  it  seem'd  the  hale  young  man  his  vote  for 
Jackson  cast ! 

Thank  God  it  was  not  lost ! — my  vote  I  did  not  cast 

in  vain  ! 
I  go  alone  to  drop  my  vote — the  glorious  vote  again ; 
Alone — where    three    together    fell   but    one    to-day 

shall  fall; 
But  though  I  go  alone  to-day,  one  voice  shall  speak 

for  all ! 

For  when  our  men,  awaking  quick,  from  hearth  and 
threshold  came, 

Mine  did  not  say,  "Another  day!"  but  started  like 
a  flame ; 

I  '11  vote  for  them  as  well  as  me  ;  they  died  as  sol- 
diers can, 

But  in  my  vote  their  voices  each  shall  claim  the  right 

of  man. 

4  41 


RIDING   TO    VOTK. 

The  elder  left  his  wife  and  child — my  vote  for  these 

shall  tell ; 
The  younger's  sweet-heart  has  a  claim — I  '11  vote  for 

her  as  well ! 
Yes  I  for  the  myriad  speechless  tongues,  the  myriad 

offer'd  lives, 
The  desolation  at  the  heart  of  orphans  and  of  wives ! 

I  go  to  give  my  vote  alone — I  curse  your  shameless 

shame 
Who  fight  for  traitors  here  at  home  in  Peace's  holy 

name  ! 
I  go  to  give  my  vote  alone,  but  even  while  I  do, 
I  vote  for  dead  and  living,  all — the  living  dead  and 

you! 

See  yonder  tree  beside  the  field,  caught  in  the  sud- 
den sough. 

How  conscious  of  its  strength  it  leans,  how  straight 
and  steadfast  now ! 

If  Lincoln  bends  (for  all,  through  him,  my  vote  I 
mean  to  cast) — 

What  winds  have  blown  !  what  storms  he  's  known  ! 
the  hickory  's  straight  at  last ! 


NOVEJIBEE,    18G4. 


42 


LAND  IN  CLOUD. 

Above  the  sunken  sun  the  clouds  are  fired 
With  a  dark  splendor:  the  enchanted  hour 
Works  momentary  miracles  in  the  sky ; 
Weird  shadows  take  from  fancy  what  they  lack 
For  semblance,  and  I  see  a  boundless  plain, 
A  mist  of  sun  and  sheaves  in  boundless  air, 
Gigantic  shapes  of  Keapers  moving  slow 
In  some  new  harvest :  so  I  can  but  dream 
Of  my  great  Land,  that  takes  its  Morning  star 
Out  of  the  dusky  Evening  of  the  East, 
My  Land,  that  lifted  into  vision  gleams 
Misty  and  vast,  a  boundless  plain  afar, 
(Like  yonder  fadmg  fantasy  of  cloud,) 
With  shadowy  Reapers  moving,  vague  and  slow, 
In  some  wide  hardest  of  the  days  to  be — 
A  mist  of  sun  and  sheaves  in  boundless  air  ! 

43 


SUN'SHIls^E    AND    FIRELIGHT. 


ROSE  A>TD  ROOT. 

A    FABLE    OF   TWO    LIVES. 

The  Rose  aloft  in  sunny  air, 
Beloved  alike  by  bird  and  bee, 

Takes  for  the  dark  Root  little  care, 
That  toils  below  it  ceaselessly. 

I  put  my  question  to  the  flower : 

"  Pride  of  the  Summer,  garden-queen. 

Why  livest  thou  thy  little  hour  ?" 
And  the  Rose  answer'd,  "  I  am  seen." 

I  put  my  question  to  the  Root — 
"  I  mine  the  earth  content,"  it  said, 

"  A  hidden  miner  underfoot ; 
I  know  a  Rose  is  overhead. " 
47 


THE   SUNSHINE   OF   SHADOWS. 

ON     A     PnOTOGRAPII     OF     THREE    CHILDREN. 

Three  cliildren's  shadow-faces  look 
From  my  familiar  picture-book: 
Far  from  their  father's  threshold  sweet 
I  found  them  in  a  noisy  street. 

"Dear  children,  come  with  me,"  I  said, 
"And  make  my  home  your  own  instead; 
Your  gentle  looks,  your  tender  words, 
Shall  mate  the  sunbeams,  charm  the  birds." 

They  came,  but  never  lip  is  stirr'd 
With  merry  laugh  or  mirthful  word : 
As  in  a  trance  at  me  they  look 
Whene'er  I  ope  their  prisoning  book. 

But  as  I  gaze,  in  revery  bound, 
The  silence  overflows  with  sound: 

48 


THE    SUNSHINE    OF   SHADOWS. 

From  garden  haunts  of  birds  and  bees 
Hum  voices  througli  tbe  blossoming  trees. 

Like  waters  beard  when  breezes  blow, 
Ligbt  laughters  waver  to  and  fro; 
Then,  when  my  dream  is  gone,  I  say 
"Some  wind  has  blown  the  sound  away." 

For  the  light  breeze,  alighting  brief. 
Turns  with  its  sudden  wings  the  leaf, 
And,  like  a  passing  sunshine,  they 
Seem  so  to  shout  and  fly  away  I 
5  49 


HIGHER   TENANTS. 

Apteh  Winter  fires  were  ended,  and  the  last  spark, 

vanishing 
From  the  embers  on  our  hearthstone,  flew  into   the 

sky  of  spring: 

In  the  night-time,  in  the  morning — when  the  air  was 
hush'd  around — 

Throbbing  vaguely  on  the  silence,  came  a  dull,  mys- 
terious sound: 

Like  the  sultry  hum  of  thunder,  at  the  sullen  close 

of  day, 
Out  of  clouds  that  brood  and  threaten  on  the  horizon 

far  away. 

"'Tis,"  I  said,  "the  April  thunder,"  and  I  thought 

of  flowers  that  spring, 
And  of  trees  that  stand  in  blossom,  and  of  birds  that 

fly  and  sing. 

60 


niGHER   TENANTS. 

But  the  sound,  repeated  often — ^nearer,  more  familiar 
grown — 

From  our  chimney  seem'd  descending,  and  the  swal- 
low's wings  were  known. 

Where  the  lithe  flames  leap'd  and   lighten'd,  charm 

of  host  and  cheer  of  guest. 
There  the  emigrant  of  Summer  chose  its  homestead, 

built  its  nest. 

Then  I  dream'd  of  poets  dwelling,  like  the  swallow, 

long  ago, 
Overhead    in    dusky    places    ere    their    songs    were 

heard  below  j 

Overhead  in  humble  attics,  ministers  of  higher 
things : 

Underneath  were  busy  people,  overhead  were  heaven- 
ly wings! 

And  I  thought  of  homely  proverbs  that  on  simple 

lips  had  birth. 
Born  of  gentle  superstitions  at  old  firesides  of  the 

earth : 

51 


HIGHER   TENANTS. 

How,   where'er   the   swallow   builded   under   human 

roofs  its  nest, 
Something  holier,  purer,  higher,  in  the  house  became 

a  guest; 

Peace,  or  Love,  or  Health,  or  Fortune — something 

Prosperous,  from  the  air 
'Lighting    with    the    wings    of    swallows,    breathed 

divine  possession  there. 

"Friendly   gods,"   I   said,   "descending,   make   their 

gentler  visits  so. 
Fill    the    air    with    benedictions — songs    above   and 

songs  below!" 

Then  I  murmur'd,  "Welcome,  swallow;  I,  your  land- 
lord, stand  content: 

Even  if  song  were  not  sufficient,  higher  Tenants  pay 
your  rent!" 

62 


NEW  GRASS. 

Along  the  sultry  city  street, 

Faint  subtile  breaths  of  fragrance  meet 

Me,  wandering  unaware 
(In  April  warmth,  while  yet  the  sun 
For  Spring  no  constant  place  has  won) 

By  many  a  vacant  square. 

Whoever  reads  these  lines  has  felt 

That  breath  whose  long-lost  perfumes  melt 

The  spirit — newly  found 
While  the  sweet,  banished  families 
Of  earth's  forgotten  sympathies 

Rise  from  the  sweating  groimd. 

It  is  the  subtile  breath  of  grass ; 

And  as  I  pause,  or  lingering  pass. 

With  half-shut  eyes,  behold ! 

Bright  from  old  baptisms  of  dew 

Fresh  meadows  burst  upon  my  view. 

And  new  becomes  the  old ! 
53 


NEW   GEA.SS. 

Old  longings  (Pleasure  kissing  Pain), 
Old  visions  visit  me  again — 

Life's  quiet  deeps  are  stirr'd : 
The  fountain-heads  of  memory  flow 
Through  channels  dry  so  long  ago, 

With  music  long  unheard, 

I  think  of  pastures,  evermore 
Greener  than  any  hour  before, 

Where  cattle  wander  slow, 
Large-uddered  in  the  sun,  or  chew 
The  cud  content  in  shadows  new, 

Or,  shadows,  homeward  low. 

I  dream  of  prairies  dear  to  me : 
Afar  in  town  I  seem  to  see 

Their  widening  miles  arise, 
Where,  like  the  buttei'fly  anear, 
Far  off  in  sunny  mist  the  deer, 

That  seems  no  larger,  flies. 

Thy  rural  lanes,  Ohio,  come 
Back  to  me,  grateful  with  the  hum 

Of  every  thing  that  stirs : 
Dear  places,  sadden'd  by  the  years. 
Lost  to  my  sight  send  sudden  tears, 

Their  secret  messengers. 
54 


NEW    GRASS. 

I  think  of  paths  a-swarm  with  wings 
Of  bird  and  bee — all  lovely  things 

From  sun  or  sunny  clod  ; 
Of  play-grounds  where  the  children  play, 
And  fear  not  Time  will  come  to-day, 

And  feel  the  warming  sod. 

New  grass  :  ifc  grows  by  cottage  doors, 
In  orchards  hush'd  with  bloom,  by  shores 

Of  streams  that  flow  as  green, 
On  hill-slopes  white  with  tents  or  sheep, 
And  where  the  sacred  mosses  keep 

The  holy  dead  unseen. 

It  grows  o'er  distant  graves  I  know — 
Sweet  grass !  above  them  greener  grow, 

And  guard  them  tenderly ! 
My  brother's,  not  three  summers  green ; 
My  sister''s — new-made,  only  seen 

Through  flir-off  tears  by  me ! 

It  grows  on  battle-liel Js — alas ! 
Old  battle-fields  are  lost  in  grass  ; 

New  battles  Avait  the  new : 
Hark,  is  it  the  living  warmtli  I  hear  ? 
The  cannon  far  or  bee  anear  ? 

The  bee  and  cannon  too  ! 

Washington,  April,  1863. 

55 


OUTGOING. 

A  WRATHFUL  dust,  the  spirit  of  the  town, 

Follows  me,  loth  to  let  me  free,  unti-1 

I  come  to  this  close  lane  whose  gateway  leads 

From  the   low,  heated  city  to  the  peace, 

The  high  domestic  quiet,  of  the  hills. 

It  is  a  narrow  lane  (on  either  side 

A  wall:  the  left  of  trees — the  right  of  stone, 

Roof 'd  with  a  hedge)  and  hides  me  from  the  dust 

That  like  a  haffled  hunter  flies  beyond. 

And  welcomes  me  caressingly  with  airs 

Breathed  from  a  myriad  things  that  hold  the  breath 

Of  Summer — weeds  that  blossom,  thorns  that  flower; 

And  blesses  me  with  dear  and  gentle  sounds, 

(That,  mingled,  make  but  quiet  felt  the  more,) 

And  dewy  sights  that,  seen  however  oft, 

Make  the  eye  always  new  and  can  not  tire. 

At  the  cool  opening  of  this  guardless  lane 
[  think  the  tender  Mother  whom  I  love, 

56 


OUTGOINa. 

Awaiting,  whispers  with  her  brooding  voice — 
Her  single,  gentle  voice  that  is  not  heard 
By  the  deaf  ear  but  in  the  hearkening  heart — 
"Welcome,  0  child  come  back!  for  all  the  day 
I  long'd  for  thee,  my  child,  and  all  the  day 
I  dream'd  thee  lost  in  yonder  barren  town, 
And  sent  my  messengers  to  call  for  thee. 
Didst  thou  not  hear  a  bird  beside  thy  pane 
A  tender  moment — hear  but  hardly  hear? 
Didst  thou  not  see  a  bee  that  came  and  went, 
Striking  thy  window — see  but  hardly  see? 
Didst  thou  not  feel  a  wind  that  turn'd  thy  page. 
Intruding,  playful,  like  a  timid  child 
That  fears  repulses — feel  but  hardly  feel? 
Vexed  by  the  flying  leaf,  thy  blessing  held 
The  breeze  that  linger'd,  but  thou  didst  not  come. 
I  fear  for  thee,  too  long  in  yonder  town, 
For  they  forget  me  there — and  wilt  not  thou? 
But  see  my  welcome;  see  my  open  door." 
So  with  the  dear  rebuke  I  enter  in. 

The  trees  in  sunset  tremble  goldenly 
Through  all  their  leaves.     I  wander  gladly  down 
Over  a  bridge  across  a  troubled  rill 
(Fluttering  from  its  dark  with  frighten'd   wings) ; 

57 


OUTGOING. 

Beyond,  the  roadway  climbs  around  the  hight, 
And,  look  !  beneath  me,  with  a  music  heard 
Best  in  the  heart  of  silence  far  away, 
A  falling  fleece  of  silver,  shines  the  dam : 
Above,  the  quiet  mirror  lets  the  duck 
Float,  brooding  on  its  shadow,  motionless; 
Below,  the  shallows  glitter  every-where 
As  if  with  shoals  of  hurrying  fish  that  leap 
Over  each  other  noisily  in  the  sun ; 
And,  farther  down,  the  greenly-hidden  race 
Persuades  the  seeking  eye  to  wander  where, 
Gray  through  the  boughs  of  sycamore  and  elm, 
Tremulous  with  its  myriad-moving  wheels. 
With  sullen  thunder  stands  the  busy  mill. 
While  over  all,  through  azure  haze  adust. 
Show  the  thick  spires  and  the  bronz'd  marble  dome, 
Transfigured,  far-off,  for  my  memory, 
Made  beautiful  for  my  forgetfulness. 

58 


THE  BLACKBERRY  FARM. 

Nature  gives  with  freest  hands 
Richest  gifts  to  poorest  lands : 
When  the  lord  has  sown  his  last 
And  his  field  's  to  desert  pass'd, 
She  begins  to  claim  her  own, 
And — instead  of  harvests  flown, 
Sunburnt  sheaves  and  golden  ears — 
Sends  her  hardier  pioneers; 
Barbarous  brambles,  outlawed  seeds, 
The  first  families  of  weeds 
Fearing  neither  sun  nor  wind, 
With  the  flowers  of  their  kind 
(Outcasts  of  the  garden-bound), 
Colonize  the  expended  ground, 
Using  (none  her  right  gainsay) 
Confiscations  of  decay: 
Thus  she  clothes  the  barren  place, 
Old  disgrace,  with  newer  grace. 
Title-deeds,  which  cover  lands 
Ruled  and  reap'd  by  buried  hands, 


THE    BLACKBERRY    FARM. 

She — disowning  owners  old, 

Scorning  their  "to  have  and  hold" — 

Takes  herself;  the  mouldering  fence 

Hides  with  her  munificence  ; 

O'er  the  crumbled  gatepost  twines 

Her  proprietary  vines  ; 

On  the  doorstep  of  the  house 

Writes  in  moss  "  Anonymous," 

And,  that  beast  and  bird  may  see, 

"  This  is  Public  property ;" 

To  the  bramble  makes  the  sun 

Bearer  of  profusion: 

Blossom-odors  breathe  in  June 

Promise  of  her  later  boon, 

And  in  August's  brazen  heat 

Grows  the  prophecy  complete — 

Lo,  her  largess  glistens  bright, 

Blackness  diamonded  with  light ! 

Then,  behold,  she  welcomes  all 

To  her  annual  festival : 

"  Mine  the  fruit  but  yours  as  well," 

Speaks  the  Mother  Miracle  ; 

"  Rich  and  poor  are  welcome ;  come, 

Make  to-day  millennium 

In  my  garden  of  the  sun : 

Black  and  white  to  me  are  one. 
60 


THE   BLACKBERRY    FARM. 

This  roy  freehold  use  content — 

Here  no  landlord  rides  for  rent ; 

I  proclaim  my  jubilee, 

In  my  Black  Republic,  free. 

Come,"  she  beckons ;  "  Enter,  through 

Gates  of  gossamer,  doors  of  dew 

(Lit  with  Summer's  tropic  fire), 

My  Liberia  of  the  brier." 

Georgetown  Heights,  July,  1863. 

fil 


THE  MOROTNG  STREET. 

Alone  I  walk  the  Morning  Street, 
Fill'd  with  the  silence  vague  and  sweet : 
All  seems  as  strange,  as  still,  as  dead 
As  if  unnumber'd  years  had  fled, 
Letting  the  noisy  Babel  lie 
Breathless  and  dumb  against  the  sky ; 
The  light  wind  walks  with  me  alone 
Where  the  hot  day  flame-like  was  blown. 
Where  the  wheels  roar'd,  the  dust  was  beat : 
The  dew  is  in  the  Morning  Street. 

Where  are  the  restless  throngs  that  pour 
Along  this  mighty  corridor 
While  the  noon  shines  ? — the  harrying  crowd 
Whose  footsteps  make  the  city  loud — 
The  myriad  faces — hearts  that  beat 
No  more  ia  the  deserted  street  ? 
Those  footsteps  in  their  dreaming  maze 
Cross  thresholds  of  forgotten  days ; 
Those  faces  brighten  from  the  years 

62 


THE   MOKXIXG    STREET. 

Jn  rising  suns  long  set  in  tears  ; 

Those  hearts — far  in  the  Past  they  beat, 

Unheard  within  the  Morning  Street. 

A  city  of  the  world's  gray  prime, 
Lost  in  some  desert  far  from  Time, 
Where  noiseless  ages,  gliding  through, 
Have  only  sifted  sand  and  dew — 
Yet  a  mysterious  hand  of  man 
Lying  on  all  the  haunted  plan. 
The  passions  of  the  human  heart 
Quickening  the  marble  breast  of  Art — 
Were  not  more  strange  to  one  who  first 
Upon  its  ghostly  silence  burst 
Than  this  vast  quiet  where  the  tide 
Of  Life,  upheav'd  on  either  side. 
Hangs  trembling,  ready  soon  to  beat 
With  hvmian  waves  the  Morning  Street. 

Ay,  soon  the  glowing  morning  flood 

Breaks  through  the  charmed  solitude : 

This  silent  stone,  to  music  won, 

Shall  murmur  to  the  rising  sun ; 

The  busy  place,  in  dust  and  heat. 

Shall  rush  with  wheels  and  swarm  with  feet ; 

63 


THE    MORNING   STREET. 

The  Arachnc-threads  of  Purpose  stream 
Unseen  within  the  morning  gleam ; 
The  life  shall  move,  the  death  be  plain  ; 
The  bridal  throng,  the  funeral  train, 
Together,  face  to  face  shall  meet 
And  pass  within  the  Morning  StreeD. 

C4 


THE  LOST  HOEIZO:Nr. 


I  STOOD  at  evening  in  the  crimson  air : 

The  trees  shook  off  their  dusky  twilight  glow ; 

The  wind  took  up  old  burdens  of  despair, 

And  moan'd  like  Atlas  with  his  world  of  woe. 


Like  the  great  circle  of  a  bronzed  ring, 

That  clasp'd  the  vision  of  the  vanish'd  day, 

I  saw  the  vague  horizon  vanishing 
Around  me  into  darkness,  far  away. 

Then,  while  the  night  came  fast  with  cloudy  roar, 
Lo,  all  about  me,  rays  of  hearths  unknown 

Sprang  from  the  gloom  with  light  unseen  before, 
And  made  a  warm  horizon  of  their  own. 

I  sisrh'd  :  "  The  wanderer  in  the  desert  sees 

Strange  ghosts  of  summer  lands  arising,  sweet 

With  restless  waters,  green  with  gracious  trees 

Whose  shadows  beckon  welcome  to  his  feet. 
6  65 


THE   LOST  HOKIZOIS'. 

"  For  erst,  where  now  the  desert  far  away 
Stretches  a  wilderness  of  hopeless  sand, 

Clasping  fair  fields  and  sunburnt  harvests  lay 
The  heavenly  girdles  of  a  fruitful  land." 

I  thought  of  a  sweet  mirage  now  no  more : 

Warm  windows  radiant  with  a  dancing  flame- 
Dear  voices  heard  within  a  happy  door — 
A  face  that  to  the  darkness,  lighted,  came. 

'No  hearth  of  mine  was  waiting,  near  or  far ; 

No  threshold  for  my  coming  footstep  yearn'd 
To  touch  its  slumber ;  no  warm  window  star, 

The  tender  Venus,  to  my  longing  burn'd. 

The  darken'd  windows  slowly  lost 'their  fire. 

But  shimmer'd  with  the  ghostly  ember-light : 

A  wanderer,  with  old  embers  of  desire. 

The  lost  horizon  held  me  in  the  tiight. 

66 


ANTAEUS. 

Aweary  of  the  restless  will  to  know 

Invisible  heights,  which  men  have  sigh'd  to  reach, 

And  walk  the  deep  sea,  without  faith,  alone, 

I  thought  of  that  lithe  wrestler,  bom  of  Earth, 

Who  strove  -with  him  the  hydra's  conqueror, 

Losing  and  winning.     Lifted  into  air 

He  swoon'd  defeated :  touching  then  the  sod, 

His  blood  sprang  full  of  wings  and  he  arose. 

The  heaving  pulses  of  the  hills  his  own, 

The  sinews  of  the  deserts  in  his  thighs. 

And,  when  I  feU  asleep  at  middle  night, 

My  thought  becoming  portion  of  my  sleep, 

I  wander'd  into  Libyan  solitudes 

(For  so  a  dream  confuses  place  and  time) 

And  to  me  spake  the  giant  of  the  Waste : 

"  I  am  Antaeus,  darling  of  the  Earth. 

Whatever  makes  me  stronger,  man,  is  thine ; 

I  am  a  man,  but  these  ungirded  arms. 

Forever  striving,  writhe  forever  more. 

Wrestling  with  gods  and  godlike  challengers. 

Born  of  the  Earth,  I  cling  to  her  for  strength, 

67 


ANTAEUS. 

Her  life  is  mine  and  mine  is  hers  forever ; 
I  feel  my  thews  alone  when  standing  fast, 
A  brother  of  the  mountains,  at  their  feet, 
And  dare  to  know  my  conquerors :  they  dwell 
Aloft  in  myriad  shapes  and  essences  ; 
Sometimes  they  wait  and  seize  me,  unaware, 
In  whirlwinds  of  white  frenzy,  and  I  fall 
Weak  as  a  leaf  whose  last  breath  is  gone  out 
In  the  first  breath  of  Autumn :  waking,  then, 
(Like  one  who,  falling,  wakens  from  his  dream,) 
I  see  a  winged  giant  near  the  sun. 
I  know  my  place,  my  victors  know  their  own  : 
Theirs  the  invisible  JEther,  mine  below 
Where  the  Earth  breathes  her  breath,  a  breath  of 

Life, 
And  if  perchance  I  clasp  them  in  my  arms 
Victorious  here,  I  claim  them  as  my  own. 
Servants  of  men  and  winged  messengers. 

"  I  am  Antaeus,  darling  of  the  Earth, 
Wrestler  with  gods  and  godlike  challengers, 
But,  oftentimes,  aweary  of  my  strife. 
And  of  the  clasp  of  those  invisible  arms. 
Ready  to  catch  and  lift  me  up  in  swoon, 
The  death-in-life  that  I  alone  can  know, 
And  weary  of  the  wrestlers  coming  still 

With  challenges  in  the  air,  for  rest  I  turn 

68 


AXTAEUS. 

To  the  dear  bosom  of  my  Mother  Earth : 

She,  like  a  mother,  holds  me  near  her  heart ; 

She,  like  a  mother,  kisses  me  asleep 

On  loving  pillows  hush'd  for  harmless  dreams ; 

She,  like  a  mother,  with  a  mother's  voice 

At  morning  wakens  me.     Dear  Mother  Earth, 

Dearest  and  tenderest  Mother,  quick  with  love. 

Throbbing  with  vigor,  full  of  gentleness, 

I  give  myself  to  thee,  and  thou  dost  give 

Thyself  to  me  again ;  thy  weary  child. 

Asleep  upon  thy  bosom,  wakens  strong. 

For  thou  awakest  in  my  heart  anew, 

Rising  immortal  in  my  mortal  strength." 

It  was  a  voice  and  pass'd,  as  voices  pass 

From  dreams  but  leave  a  wake  of  sound — a  form 

And  vanish' d,  leaving  something  for  the  sight, 

Shadowy  and  vast,  the  shadow  of  a  shade ; 

And  I  awoke,  and  o'er  my  head  a  vine 

Bronzed  with  an  early  splendor,  to  and  fro 

A  playful  breeze  within  my  window  caught ; 

I  heard  the  noise  of  morning  ;  far  away 

I  saw  a  ploughman,  and  a  sower  near 

Dropp'd  corn  into  his  furrows,  trusting  still 

All  golden  promises  of  growing  gain  ; 

And  when  I  walk'd  abroad  my  shadow  made 

A  giant's  bulk,  my  sunburnt  breast  beat  full 

69 


ANTAEUS. 

Of  the  great  blood  which  moved  in  giants'  veins 
When,  as  we  speak,  the  Earth  itself  was  young ; 
And,  while  I  saw  an  engine  drag  its  world, 
And  watch'd  an  eagle  in  his  azure  deeps, 
I  smiled  at  the  vague  medley  of  my  dream. 
But  said,  "  I  am  Antaeus,  born  of  Earth, 
Her  chosen  wrestler ;  lifted  into  air 
I  swoon  defeated:  touching  then  the  sod, 
My  blood  springs  full  of  wings  and  I  am  strong." 

■    70 


ONE   OF   TWO. 

Listen  and  look !     If  you  listen,  you  see 

A  nest  witli  a  bird  in  yonder  tree : 

Above,  in  the  leaves  tbat  glitter  with  May, 

The  little  balf-owner  is  singing  to-day : 

"  We  are  very  proud,  we  are  ricb,  and  bless'd- 

Come  and  look,  if  you  please,  at  our  nest." 

Listen  and  look  !     If  you  look,  you  bear 
Tbe  sweetest  song  you  bave  beard  for  a  year ; 
Over  tbe  nest  on  tbe  tremulous  spray 
Tbe  little  balf-owner  is  singing  to-day : 
"  Soon,  in  tbe  nest  I  bave  asked  you  to  see, 
Listen  and  look  for  our  family!" 

71 


THE  OLD  MAN  AND  THE  SPRING-LEAVES 

Underneath  th'e  beechen  tree 
All  things  fall  in  love  witli  me ! 
Birds,  that  sing  so  sweetly,  sung 
Ne'er  more  sweet  when  I  was  young; 
Some  sweet  breeze,  I  will  not  see, 
Steals  to  kiss  me  lovingly ; 
All  the  leaves,  so  blithe  and  bright, 
Dancing  sing  in  Maying  light 
Over  me:  "At  last,  at  last, 
He  has  stolen  from  the  Past." 

Wherefore,  leaves,  so  gladly  mad? 
I  am  rather  sad  than  glad. 

"  He  is  the  merry  child  that  play'd 
Underneath  our  beechen  shade. 
Years  ago ;  whom  all  things  bright 
Gladden'd,   glad  with  his  delight 

72 


THE    OLD    MAN    AND    THE    SPRING-LEAVES. 

I  am  not  the  child  that  play'd 

Underneath  your  beechen  shade ; 

I  am  not  the  boy  ye  sung 

Songs  to,  in  lost  fairy-tongue. 

He  read  fairy  dreams  below, 

Legends   leaves   and  flowers  must  know; 

He  dream'd   fairy  dreams,  and  ye 

Changed  to  fairies,  in  your  glee 

Dancing,  singing  from  the  tree ; 

And,  awaken'd,   fairy-land 

Circled  childhood's  magic  wand ! 

Joy  swell'd  his  heart,  joy  kiss'd  his  brow  ; 

I  am  following  funerals  now. 

Fairy  shores  from  Time  depart; 

Lost  horizons  flush  my  heart. 

I  am  not  the  child  that  play'd 

Underneath  your  beechen  shade. 

"  'T  is  the  merry  child  that  play'd 
Underneath  our  beechen  shade 
Years  ago ;  whom  all  things  bright 
Loved,  made  glad  with  his  delight!" 

Ah !  the  bright  leaves  will  not  know 
That  an  old  man  dreams  below  ! 
7  73 


THE   OLD   MAN   AND   THE   SPRING-LEAVES. 

No ;  they  will  not  Lear  nor  see, 
Clapping  their  hands  at  finding  me, 
Singing,  dancing  from  their  tree  I 
Ah !  their  happy  voices  steal 
Time  away :  again  I  feel, 
While  they  sing  to  me  apart, 
The  lost  child  come  in  my  heart : 
In  the  enchantment  of  the  Past, 
The  old  man  is  the  child  at  last! 
74 


THE  MASTER-KEY. 

Lo !  in  my  lifted  hand  a  little  Key : 

What  matter  if  of  iron  or  of  gold, 
My  simplest  gift,  my  greatest  gift,  you  see ; 

My  life,  Beloved,  when  it  is  given  you  hold. 

Enter  whene'er  you  choose :  at  vesper  chime, 
Or  when  the  dewy  lips  of  midnight,  dumb, 

Kiss  the  dumb  world.    Behold,  at  morning's  prime 
My  doors  are  open,  and  the  many  come. 

The  many  come — it  matters  little  who  : 
I  guard  the  place  and  welcome,  evermore. 

My  sacred  chambers,  never  closed  to  you, 
Ai'e  closed  for  them :  I  keep  the  outer  door. 

Enter  whene'er  you  will,  for  every  room 
Is  yours  in  being  mine.     To  you  unknown, 

This  Key  knows  outward  porch  and  inner  gloom. 
Each  sky-ward  stair,  each  closet  dim  and  lone. 

75 


THE    MASTER-KEY. 

Dance  in  the  echoing  halls,  Beloved,  and  sing 
Away  your  heart  to  every  echo  sweet 

(The  echoes,  too,  are  mine),  with  flitting  wing 
Of  buoyant  joy  and  scarce-alighting  feet. 

The  lighted  walls  shall  answer  your  delight, 
With  floating  shapes  and  summer  dreams  of  Art : 

The  Undine  springing  from  her  fountain  bright. 
The  lithe  Bacchante  with  her  panting  heart. 

Dream  in  the  purple  glooms,  for  dreaming  made. 
Where  the  white  angel  holds  the  lily  white 

Against  her  marble  bosom  (in  the  shade 

Her  wings  forgotten),  watching  day  and  night. 

What  though  at  times  along  the  floors — unknown, 
Unheard  by  others — echo  phantom  feet. 

Weird  faces  start  from  veils,  faint  voices  moan  ? 
Know  Life  and  Death  in  every  passage  meet. 

Open  the  chambers  where  the  unburied  dead. 

While  Memory  there  forever  wakeful  stands. 

Show  their  thin  ghostly  radiance  not  yet  fled — 

Pure  breathless  faces,  tender  folded  hands. 

76 


THE    MASTEE-KET. 

Around  the  death-beds,  hush'd,  familiar  go, 
And  kiss  for  me  the  dear  familiar  clay, 

While  the  dark  funeral  tapers  waver  slow 
And  the  old  death-watch  is  renew'd  for  aye. 

Walk  in  my  secret  chapel  when  you  will : 
Lo  !  Visions  come  adown  some  unseen  stair ; 

Sometimes  high  voices  all  the  silence  fiU, 
And  St.  Cecilia's  soul  is  in  the  air. 

Fear  not :  the  angel  with  the  lily  white 
There  watches,  too,  as  in  the  dreaming  place, 

With  wings  uplifted  in  mysterious  light 
And  some  white  morning  on  her  lifted  face. 

Enter,  whene'er  you  choose,  whatever  door : 

This  Key  will  open,  night  and  day,  the  whole. 
Be  Love  with  you,  your  g  uardian  evermore ; 

Fear  nothing.     Take  the  Master  of  my  Soul. 

77 


PARTING. 

We  clasp  our  hands :  we  turn  and  go, 
Our  footsteps  echoing  years  between ; 

We  meet  again  :  we  hardly  know 

These  ghosts  of  loved  ones  long  unseen. 

We  clasp  our  hands  :  we  turn  and  go, 
Far  travellers  with  strange  hours  and  years ; 

The  face,  the  form,  the  voice  we  know, 
They  come  not  back  from  time  and  tears. 

We  clasp  our  hands  in  loving  trust ; 
We  send  our  voices  o'er  the  wave : 
No  hand  can  reach  us — from  the  dust ; 

No  voice  can  find  us — in  the  grave. 

78 


THE  MONK'S  VISIOI^  OF  CHRIST. 

Behold,  unto  a  monk  the  vision  grew 

Of  Him  who  waits  for  all,  his  loving  Lord, 

Him  who,  all-suffering,  all  patience  knew. 
And  wore  the  crown  of  Hate  for  Love's  reward. 

The  perfect  vision  of  most  holy  light, 

The  Guest  of  man,  unto  His  follower  dear, 

Gave  (He  who  gave  the  blind  his  mortal  sight) — 
Immortal  light  to  see  his  Master  near. 

Long  gazed  the  monk ;  his  rapture  grew  the  more : 
The  Sight  remained,  nor  grew  his  soiil  content, 

Till  in  his  heart  a 'message  from  the  poor. 
Fed  by  his  bounty,  whisper'd,  and  he  went. 

His  duty  called,  Christ's  own  beloved  care, 

While,  in  his  room,   Christ  seem'd   himself  to 
stay; 

But  Christ  was  in  his  heart :  so,  keeping  there 

The  vision  sweet,  he  walk'd  his  Master's  way. 

79 


THE    monk's    VISIOK    OF    CHRIST. 


Pe  walked  His  Way,  fulfilling,  as  he  went. 
His  Master's  word  and  unforgotten  will : 

fleturning — heaven-rewarded,  self-content — 
Lo,  the  dear  vision  waited  for  him  still ! 

"  Thy  Will  be  done,"  in  many  a  prayer  before 
His  heart  had  lifted.     Lo,  the  Vision  said 

(His  Will  being  done  who  visits  still  the  poor) 
Lowly:  "  Hadst  thou  remain'd,  I  must  have  fled." 

80 


THE  FIRST  FIRE. 

Deaeest,  to-night  upon  our  Hearth 
See  the  first  fire  of  Autumn  leap : 

Oh,  first  that  we  with  festal  Mirth 
For  lo\ing  Memoiy  keep  ! 

Sweet  Fairy  of  the  Fireside,  come 

And  guard  our  altar-flame  of  Home ! 

Without,  October  breathes  the  night — 
Cold  dews  below,  cold  stars  on  high ; 

The  chilly  cricket  sees  our  light 
Reach  welcoming  arms  anigh, 

And  sighs  to  sing  his  evening  song 

lu  our  warm  air  the  winter  long. 

Blithe  cricket !  welcome,  singing,  here ! 

I  half-recall  dead  Autumns  cold, 
TVith  half-shut  eyelids  dream,  my  dear. 

Their  sadness  vague  and  old : 

Ha !  the  lithe  flame  leaps  red,  and  tries 

With  bursting  sparks  to  blind  my  eyes ! 

81 


THE    FIRST   FIRE. 

Ill-timed  the  gay  conceit,  I  know : 
On  the  dark  hills  that  near  us  lie 

(The  Shadow  will  not,  need  not,  go) 
Beneath  the  Autumnal  sky 

Stand  battle-tents,  that,  everywhere, 

Keep  ghostly  white  the  moonless  air. 

The  sentinel  walks  his  lonely  beat, 
The  soldier  slumbers  on  the  ground : 

To  one  hearth-glimmers  far  are  sweet. 
One  dreams  of  fireside  sound ! 

From  unforgotten  doors  they  reach. 

Dear  sympathies,  as  dear  as  speech. 

I  think  of  all  the  homeless  woe, 

The  battle- winter  long ; 
Alas,^the  world the  hearth's  aglow ! 

And,  hark !  the  cricket's  sono- 
Within ! — the  Fairy's  minstrel  sings 
Away  the  ghosts  of  saddest  things 


if 


The  firelight  strikes  our  walls  to  bloom — 
Home's  tender  warmth  in  flower,  I  deem ; 

And  look,  the  pictures  in  the  room 
Shine  in  the  restless  gleam — 

Dear,  hmnble  fancies  of  the  heart 

When  Art  was  Love  in  love  with  Art : 

82 


THE    FIBST   FIKE. 

The  Torrent  lost  in  rainbow  spray ; 

The  Flock  (its  shepherdess  the  moon) 
Asleep ;  the  Laureate-Lark  of  Day 

At  home  some  even  in  June ; 
The  Window,  wide  for  beam  and  bee : 
A  dove  within — without,  the  sea ! 

A  Cottage  in  a  summer  land, 

With  one  whose  shadow  walks  before ; 
Snow-peaks  afar  in  sunset  stand — 

Vines  flutter  at  the  door. 
Half-hiding  in  a  sunlit  place, 
But  cannot  hide,  a  sunlit  face ; 

The  Mother,  with  her  arms  about 
Her  baby  kiss'd  from  evening  sleep — 

Still  rocks  the  cradle:  laugh  and  shout 
Within  her  bosom  keep 

Glad  echoes — on  her  drooping  hair 

A  sunbeam,  'lighting,  lingers  there ; 

The  Angel  visiting  her  Child, 
Hovering  with  a  yearning  grace, 

Flush'd  by  the  firelight,  sweetly  mUd, 
A  mother's  brooding  face : 

Her  wings  (the  boy  has  dreaming  eyes) 

Show  that  she  came  from  Paradise ! 

83 


THE   FIKST   FIRE. 

Blithe  dance  the  flames  and  blest  are  we ! 

"Without,  the  funeral  of  the  year 
Is  preach'd  by  every  mournful  tree ; 

The  tree  in  blossom  here 
Knows  no  lost  leaves,  no  vanish'd  wing — 
In  vain  will  Autumn  preach  to  Spring ! 

The  cricket  sings.     His  song  ?     You  know ; 

Warm  prophecies  of  dearest  days — ■ 
(Horizons  lost  of  long  ago 

Crumble  within  the  blaze !) 
Of  nights  aglow  with  lights  that  bless 
And  wine  from  Home's  enchanted  press- 

The  cricket  sings ;  and,  as  I  dream, 

Your  ftice  shows  tender  smile  and  tear — 

"What  angels  of  the  hearth,  a-gleam, 
"Wingless,  have  lighted  here  ? 

Sing,  cricket,  sing  of  these  to-night — 

The  First  Fire  of  our  Home  is  bright ! 

Georgetown,  D.  C,  October,  1861. 

84 


TAKING  THE  NIGHT-TRAIN. 

A  TREMULOUS  word,  a  lingering  hand,  the  burning 
Of  restless  passion  smouldering — so  we  part ; 

Ah,  slowly  from  the  dark  the  world  is  turning 
When  midnight  stars  shine  in  a  heavy  heart. 

The  streets  are  lighted,  and  the  myriad  faces 

Move  through  the  gaslight,  and  the  homesick  feet 

Pass  by  me,  homeless;  sweet  and  close  embraces 
Charm  many  a  threshold — laughs  and  kisses  sweet.' 

From  great  hotels  the  stranger  throng  is  streaming, 
The  hurrying  wheels  in  many  a  street  are  loud ; 

Within  the  depot,  in  the  gaslight  gleaming, 
A  glare  of  faces,  stands  the  waiting  crowd. 

The  whistle  screams ;  the  wheels  are  rumbling  slowly, 
The  path  before  us  glides  into  the  light: 

Behind,  the  city  sinks  in  silence  wholly ; 
The  panting  engine  leaps  into  the  night. 

85 


TAKING   THE   NIGHT-TRAIN. 

I  seem  to  see  eacli  street  a  mystery  growing, 
In  mist  of  dreamland — vague,  forgotten  air : 

Does  no  sweet  soul,  awaking,  feel  me  going? 
Loves  no  dear  heart,  in  dreams,  to  keep  me  there  ? 

86 


LEAVES  AT  IVrST  WINDOW. 

I  ■WATCH  the  leaves  tliat  flutter  in  the  wind, 
Bathing  my  eyes  -with  coolness  and  my  heart 
Filling  with  springs  of  grateful  sense  anew, 
Before  my  window — in  the  sun  and  rain. 
And  now  the  wind  is  gone  and  now  the  rain, 
And  all  a  motionless  moment  breathe,  and  now 
Playful  the  vrind  comes  back — again  the  shower. 
Again  the  sunshine !     Like  a  golden  swarm 
Of  butterflies  the  leaves  are  fluttering, 
The  leaves  are  dancing,  singing — all  alive 
(For  Fancy  gives  her  breath  to  every  leaf) 
For  the  blithe  moment.     Beautiful  to  me, 
Of  all  inanimate  things  most  beautiful. 
And  dear  as  flowers  their  kindred,  are  the  leaves 
In  all  their  summer  life  ;  and,  when  a  child, 
I  loved  to  lie  through  sunny  afternoons 
With  half-shut  eyes  (familiar  eyes  with  things 
Long  unfamiliar,  knowing  Fairyland 
And  all  the  unhidden  mysteries  of  the  Earth) 
Using  my  kinship  in  those  earlier  days 
With  Nature  and  the  humbler  people,  dear 

87 


LEAVES   AT   MY   WINDOW. 

To  her  green  life,  iu  every  sliiule  and  sun. 

The  leaves  had  myriad  voices,  and  tlieir  joy 

One  with  the  birds'  that  sang  among  them  seera'd  ; 

And,  oftentimes,  I  lay  in  breezy  shade 

Till,  creeping  with  the  loving  stealth  he  takes 

In  healthy  temperaments,  the  blessed  Sleep 

(Thrice  blessed  and  thrice-blessing  now,  because 

Of  sleepless  things  that  will  not  give  us  rest) 

Came   with   his   weird   jirocessions — dreams  that 

wore 
All  happy  masks — blithe  fairies  nuiiiberk'ss. 
Forever  passing,  never  more  to  ])ass. 
The  Spirits  of  the  Leaves.     Awaking  then, 
Behold  the  sun  was  swimming  in  my  face 
Through  mists  of  his  creations,  swarming  gold. 
And  all  the  leaves  in  sultry  languor  lay 
Above  me,  for  I  wakcn'd  when  they  droppM 
Asleep,  unmoving.     Now,  when  Time  has  ceased 
His  holiday,  and  I  am  prison'd  close 
In  his  harsh  service,  master'd  by  his  Hours, 
The  leaves  have  not  forgotten  me:  behold. 
They  play  with  me  like  diildren  who,  awake, 
Find  one  most  dear  asleep  and  waken  him 
To  their  own  gladness  from  his  sultry  dream; 
But  nothing  sweeter  do  they  gi\e  to  me 

88 


LEAVES    AT   MY    WINDOW. 

Than  thoughts  of  one  who,  far  away,  perchance 
Watches  hke  me  the  leaves  and  thinks  of  me 
While  o'er  her  window,  sunnily,  the  shower 
Touches  all  boughs  to  music,  and  the  rose 
Beneath  swings  lovingly  toward  the  pane, 
And  She,  whom  Nature  gave  the  freshest  sense 
For  all  her  delicate  life,  rejoices  in 
The  joy  of  birds  that  use  the  sun  to  sing 
With  breasts  o'er-full  of  music.     "  Little  Birds," 
She  sings,  "  Sing  to  my  little  Bird  below !" 
And  with  her  child-like  fancy,  half-belief. 
She  hears  them  sing  and  makes-believe  they  obey, 
And  the  child,  wakening,  listens  motionless. 
8  89 


CHARITY  AT  HOME. 

Two  children  stand,  with  dimpled  cheek  and  chin, 
Pressing  their  loving  foreheads  to  the  pane 
To  see  the  forest  black  in  twilight  rain, 

But  only  see  their  happy  walls  within. 

Winking  in  firelight,  wavering  rosy- warm, 
While  rush  without,  roaring,  the  wings  of  storm. 

So,  often,  we  who  in  charm'd  circles  stand. 

Where  the  good  Fairy,  Fortune,  smiling  brings 
God's  transient  gifts  with  ever-gracious  wings, 

Behold  the  world  in  her  closed  Fairyland : 

For,  warm  within,  from  our  sweet  rooms  we  gaze 

Into  the  dark,  and  see — our  Fireside-blaze ! 

90 


MARIAN'S   FIRST   HALF-TEAR. 

Matdki-t  Marian,  born  in  May, 

When  the  earth  with  flowers  was  gay, 

And  the  Hours  by  day  and  night 

Wore  the  jewels  of  delight : 

Half-a-year  has  vanish' d  by 

Like  a  wondrous  pageantry — 

Mother  May  with  fairy  flowers, 

June  with  dancing  leaf-crown'd  Hours, 

July  red  with  harvest-rust. 

Swarthy  August  white  with  dust, 

Mild  September  clothed  in  gold, 

Wise  October,  hermit  old — 

And  the  world,  so  new  and  strange. 

Circled  you  in  olden  change. 

Since  the  miracle-morn  of  birth 

Made  your  May-day  on  the  earth. 

Half-a-year,  sweet  child,  has  brought 

To  your  eyes  the  soul  of  thought ; 

To  your  lips,  with  cries  so  dumb. 

Baby-syllables  have  come, 

91 


Marian's  first  half-year. 


Dreams  of  fairy  language  known 

To  your  mother's  heart  alone — 

Ante-Hebrew  words  complete 

(To  old  Noah  obsolete)  ; 

You  have  learn'd  expressions  strange, 

Miracles  of  facial  change, 

Winning  gestures,  supplications, 

Stamp'd  entreaties,  exhortations — 

Oratory  eloquent 

Where  no  more  is  said  than  meant ; 

You  have  lived  philosophies 

Older  far  than  Socrates — 

Holiest  life  you've  understood 

Better  than  oldest  wise  and  good : 

Such  as  erst  in  Eden's  light 

Shunn'd  not  God's  nor  angels'  eight ; 

You  have  caught  with  subtler  eyes 

Close  Pythagorean  .ties 

In  the  bird  and  in  the  tree, 

And  in  every  thing  you  see  ; 

You  have  found  and  practise  weU 

(Moulding  life  of  principle) 

Epicurean  doctrines  old 

Of  the  Hour's  fruit  of  gold : 

Lifted,  Moses-like,  you  stand. 

Looking,  where  the  Promised  Land 
92 


MAEIAJSr's    FIRST   HALT-TEAE. 


Dazzles  far  away  your  sight — 
Milk-and-honey's  your  delight ! 

Maiden  Marian,  born  in  May, 
Half-a-year  has  pass'd  away ; 
Half-a-year  of  cannon-pealing, 
('Twas  your  era  of  good  feeling,) 
You  have  scarce  heard  dreader  sound 
Than  those  privateers  around, 
Buzzing  flies,  a  busy  brood, 
Lovers  of  sweet  babyhood — 
Than  the  hiun  of  lullaby 
"  Rock'd  to  dreamland  tenderly ; 
Half-a-year  of  dreadest  sights 
Through  bright  days  and  fairy  nights, 
You  have  seen  no  dreader  thing 
Than  the  marvel  of  a  wing, 
Than  the  leaves  whose  shadows  warm 
Play'd  in  many  a  phantom  swarm 
On  the  floor,  the  table  under, 
Lighting  your  small  face  with  wonder ! 

Maiden  Marian,  born  in  May, 

Half-a-year  has  pass'd  away : 

'Tis  a  dark  November  day  ; 

Lifted  by  our  window,  lo  ! 

Washington  is  whirl'd  in  snow  ! 

But,  within,  the  fluttering  flame 
93 


Marian's  first  half-year. 

Keeps  you  summer-warm  the  same, 

And  your  mother  (while  I  write), 

Crimson'd  by  the  ember  light. 

Murmurs  sweeter  things  to  you 

Than  I'd  write  a  half-year  through : 

Baby-lyrics,  lost  to  art. 

Found  within  a  mother's  heart. 

Maiden  Marian,  born  in  May, 

I'll  not  question  Time  to-day 

For  the  mysteries  of  your  morrows. 

Girlhood's  joys  or  woman's  sorrows, 

But  (while — side  by  side,  alone — 

We  recall  your  summer  flown. 

And,  with  eyes  that  cannot  look. 

Hold  his  clasped  Mystery-Book) 

I  will  trust  when  May  is  here 

He  shall  measure  you  a  year. 

With  another  half-year  sweet 

Make  the  ring  of  light  complete  : 

We  will  date  our  New- Years  thence, 

Full  of  summer  songs  and  sense — 

All  the  years  begim  that  day 

Shall  be  born  and  die  in  May ! 

November  7, 1862. 

94 


FIRELIGHT   ABROAD. 

While  the  wide  twilight  hushes  every  thing, 
And  the  unrisen  moon's  low  mystery 
Reddens  the  snow  with  smother'd  Eastern  fire, 
And,  issuing  suddenly  and  bright  from.heaven, 
Hangs  yonder  star  and  flutters,  look,  as  bright, 
Starting  from  their  close  heavens,  one  by  one, 
The  stars  that  bless  the  ended  day  with  peace 
Shine  steadfastly — the  gentler  stars  of  Home! 

As  one  who,  thoughtful,  gazing  at  a  star, 

Marvels  what  lovelier  uplifted  lives 

Are  bound  and  dwell  within  its  shining  air, 

"By  my  lone  casement  so  I  love  to  watch 

That  halo  of  the  fireside  shed  abroad 

Into  the  world — Home's  holy  breath  of  light — 

Dreaming  of  spirits  in  its  inner  glow. 

There  the  young  bride  alights  from  charmed  air 
Into  the  real  air,  enchanted  still, 

95 


FIRELIGHT   ABROAD. 

Breathing  a  bower  of  roses  evermore 

Over  her  husband's  dusty  week-day  toil — 

Within  the  harvest  lightening  the  sheaves, 

The  forge's  hammer.     There  the  mother  smiles 

Her  patient  days  away  in  daily  love, 

With  gentle  lips  and  tender-touching  hands. 

There  her  blithe  children,  asking  for  her  knees, 

(Illumined  by  the  climbing,  dancing  blaze,) 

Cling  warm  forever,  though  the  years  have  swept 

Even  the  last  spark  in  ashes,  long  ago, 

From  the  dear  hearthstone,  in  quick  winds  of  change ; 

There    play    their    dreams    and,    lisping    dream-lik 

prayers. 
Send  them  to  Heaven  and  sleep  at  Heaven's  door. 
And  there  the  old,  remembering  (they  who  seem 
Like  helpless  trees  of  some  strong  forest  gone,) 
Watch  the  white  ashes  crumble  from  the  flame. 

If  angels  come  from  Heaven  to  our  dim  earth. 

Thither  they  come,  close  visitors  unseen. 

To  find  their  mortal  kindred — as  of  old — • 

Troubled  and  sadden'd  at  their  empty  air; 

And  the  three  angels  born  in  human  hearts — 

One  playing  hide-and-seek,  a  fickle  child; 

One,  the  strong  blind  believer  close  to  Grod, 

96 


.   FIRELIGHT   ABROAD. 

Whispering,  through  all  darkness,  "I  have  light;" 
And  she,  the-  gentle  Warmer  of  the  hearth, 
Kindling  a  flame  where  the  last  ember  flies — 
There  in  the  firelight  have  their  dwelling-place. 

The  fireside !  0,  a  warm  breath  fills  the  name  I 
The  world's  first  good,  the  earth's  last  happiness, 
Circle  that  warmth  and  breathe  that  sacred  air, 
The  atmosphere  of  those  soft  lights  of  Home! 
We  climb  for  fame,  we  walk  in  mountain  paths, 
But  there's  a  cottage  down  in  yonder  vale: 
Through  the  long  strife,  the  storm  to  take  the  hour, 
Comes  the  cool  wind  from  the  green  pathway  thither; 
Through  the  white-heated  dust  a  sudden  breath 
Of  the  one  rose  that  guards  the  happy  gate ; 
From  the  jarr'd  street  the  ever-opening  door! 

Oh,  there  we  warm  our  hearts  when  life  is  cold, 

With  memory  of  days  that  warm  no  more! 

Circling  the  firelight  from  all  exile  lands. 

The  anchor  that  no  wind  can  drift  away 

Still  draws  us  back.     One  fireside  lights  the  world! 


9 


97 


A  LOST  GRAV^EYARD 

Near  by,  a  soundless  road  is  seen,  o'ergrown  with 

grass  and  brier; 
Far  off,  the  highway's  signal  flies — a  hurrying  dust 

of  fire. 

But  here,  among  forgotten  graves,  in  June's  delicious 

breath, 
I  linger  where  the  living  loved  to  dream  of  lovely 

death. 

Worn   letters,   lit  with   heavenward   thought,   these 

crumbled  headstones  wear ; 
Fresh  flowers  (old  epitaphs  of  Love)  are  fragran^t  here 

and  there. 

Years,  years  ago,  these  graves  were  made — no  mourn- 
ers come  to-day : 

Their  footsteps  vanish'd,  one  by  one,  moving  the 
other  way. 

98 


A   LOST   GRAVEYARD. 

Through  the  loud  world  they  walk,  or  lie — like  those 

here  left  at  rest — 
With  two  long-folded  useless  arms  on  each  forgotten 

breast. 

99 


AT  EVENING. 

Hark,  out  of  all  the  neighboring  forest  hum 
The  mingled  voices  of  a  myriad  things, 
(A  Sound  that  half  is  Silence  listening) — 
Birds,  insects  loud  with  summer,  brooks  that  creep 
Slow  through  the  dark  and  flutter  in  the  light 
(As  if  with  prison'd   wings)  and  hurry  on. 
And  the  low,  lazy  turning  evermore 
0^  restless  leaves  unnumber'd,   half-asleep 
And  yet  unsleeping.     These,  while  twilight  breathes 
Great  stealthy  veils  of  silence  over  all, 
Feed  my  old  indolence  with  newer  food, 
Till,  all  forgetful  of  the  hour,  I  see, 
Winking  above  a  western  cloud,  the  star 
Beloved  by  lovers   and  the  lover's  friend, 
And,  underneath  the  boughs  and  far  and  near. 
The  fireflies  climbing  into  dusky  air. 
Lifting  their  million  stars  from  grass  and  weed 
Wet  with  the  dew;  meanwhile' the  stars  on  high 
Start  one  by  one — from  cells  invisible — 

100 


AT  EVENING. 

Visible  in  the  darkness  suddenly, 
Cotemporaries  of  the  dreamy  hour. 
Oh,  dear  to  me  the  coming  forth  of  stars ! 
After  the  trivial  tumults  of  the  day 
They  fill  the  heaven,  they  hush  the  earth  with  awe, 
And,  when  my  life  is  fretted  pettily 
With  transient  nothings,  it  is  good,  I  deem. 
From  darkling  windows  to  look  forth  and  gaze 
At  this  new  blossoming  of  Eternity 
'Twixt  each  To-morrow  and  each  dead  To-day, 
Or  else  with  solemn  footsteps  modulate 
To  spheral  music  wander  forth  and  know 
Their  radiant  individualities 
And  feel  their  presence  newly,  hear  again 
The  silence  that  is  God's  voice  speaking,  slow 
In  starry  syllables,  for  evermore. 

101 


THE  TJNHEARD  BELL. 

Somewhere  a  Bell  speaks,  deep  and  slow, 

The  ancient  monotone  of  woe  : 

A  child  within  a  garden  bright, 

The  Paradise  of  morning  light, 

Hears  fountain-laughter,  songs  of  birds, 

And  teaches  Echo  mirthful  words. 

Somewhere  a  BeU  speaks,  deep  and  slow, 
The  ancient  monotone  of  woe  : 
A  youth  in  an  enchanted  grove 
Hears  maidens  singing  lays  of  love ; 
Restless  he  seeks  them  all  the  day. 
To  crown  the  loveliest  Queen  of  May. 

Somewhere  a  Bell  speaks,  deep  and  slow, 

The  ancient  monotone  of  woe : 

A  man,  in  streets  of  dust  and  heat. 

Hears  the  wide  sound  of  busy  feet. 

The  great  world's  moving,  ceaselessly ; 

And  dusk  sails  whiten  far  at  sea. 

102 


THE    ITNHEAKD   BELL. 

Somewhere  a  Bell  speaks,  deep  and  slow, 
The  ancient  monotone  of  woe : 
An  old  man — deaf  to  winged  song, 
To  maiden  voice,  or  moving  throng — 
Hears  not  withLa  his  hearse  the  knell, 
The  black  procession  of  the  Bell. 

103 


THE  DARK  STREET. 

0  WEARY  feet  that  fill  the  nightly  air ! 
No  hearts  I  hear,  no  faces  see  above — 

1  feel  your  single  yearning,  everywhere, 

Moving  the  way  of  Love ! 

Forever  crowding  weary,  one  by  one 

Ye  pass  no  more  through  all  the  shadowy  air ; 

The  footsteps  cease  on  thresholds  dearly  lone — 
The  hearts,  the  faces  there ! 

There  all  the  voices  of  the  heart  arise, 

Unheard  along  the  darkling  street  before ; 

The  faces  light  their  loving  hps  and  eyes — 
The  footsteps  are  no  more  i 

101 


QUATRAINS. 

THE   MICKOSCOPE   AND   TELESCOPE. 

Look  down  into  the  Microscope,  and  know 
The  boundless  wonder  in  the  hidden  small ; 

Look  up  into  the  Telescope,  and,  lo  ! 

The  hidden  greatness  in  the  boundless  all  I 

A   DIAX   AT    A    GRAVE. 

To  number  sumiy  hours  by  shadows,  why 

Is  here  the  dial  shown, 
Where  from  the  Simshine  of  Etermty 

The  Shadow,  Time,  is  hown  ? 

THE    HIPPOGRIFF. 

Spurn  not   Life's   calls — though   seeking    higher 

things — 

Earth's  loving  fires  for  the  celestial  levin  : 

The  hippogriff  has  feet  as  well  as  wings. 

For  highways  of  the  world  and  paths  of  heaven. 

105 


QUATRAINS. 

TO   THE    SUN". 


Flower-wakener,  that  wakest  the  spheres  in  light 
I  worship  thee  alike  in  joy  or  sorrow : 

Thou  leavest  behind  thee  the  Eternal  Night, 
Thou  bear'st  before  thee  the  Eternal  Morrow. 


FOR ,  A   POET. 


To  own  a  quarry  proves  no  call  of  Art — 

'T  is  Nature's  store  you  cannot  keep  nor  give, 

If  at  your  touch  the  masses  will  not  start, 

Radiant  processions,  shapes  that  breathe  and  live  ! 


TORCH-LIGHT  IN  FALL-TIME. 

I  LIFT  this  sumach-bough  with  crimson  flare 

And,  touch'd  with  subtle  pangs  of  dreamy  pain, 
Through  the  dark  wood  a  torch  I  seem  to  bear 

In  Autumn's  funeral  train. 

106 


THE  GOLDEN  HAND. 

Lo,  from  the  city's  heat  and  dust 
A  Golden  Hand  forever  thrust, 
Uplifting  from  a  spire  on  high 
A  shining  finger  in  the  sky ! 

I  see  it  when  the  morning  brings 
Fresh  tides  of  life  to  living  things, 
And  the  great  world  awakes  :  behold. 
That  lifted  Hand  in  morning  gold ! 

I  see  it  when  the  noontide  beats 
Pulses  of  fire  in  busy  streets  ; 
The  dust  flies  in  the  flaming  air : 
Above,  that  quiet  Hand  is  there. 

I  see  it  when  the  twilight  clings 
To  the  dark  earth  with  hovering  wings  : 
Flashing  with  the  last  fluttering  ray, 
That  Golden  Hand  remembers  day. 
107 


THE   GOLDEN   HAND. 

The  midnight  comes — the  holy  horn* ; 
The  city  like  a  giant  flower 
Sleeps  full  of  dew  :    that  Hand,  in  light 
Of  moon  and  stars,  how  weirdly  bright ! 

Below,  in  many  a  noisy  street 
Are  toiling  hands  and  striving  feet ; 
The  weakest  rise,  the  strongest  fall : 
That  equal  Hand  is  over  all. 

Below,  in  courts  to  guard  the  land, 
Gold  buys  the  tongue  and  binds  the  hand ; 
Stealing  in  God's  great  scales  the  gold, 
That  awful  Hand,  above,  behold ! 

Below,  the  Sabbaths  walk  serene 
With  the  great  dust  of  Days  between ; 
Preachers  within  their  pulpits  stand : 
See,  over  all,  that  heavenly  Hand ! 

But  the  hot  dust,  in  crowded  air 
Below,  arises  never  there : 
O  speech  of  one  who  cannot  speak ! 
O  Sabbath- witness  of  the  Week ! 
108 


THE  GRAYE-ANGEL. 

Lsr  the  moonlight,  on  the  tombstone, 
Stands  the  Sculptor's  marble  dream ; 

From  its  face  its  soul  is  lifted, 
And  its  wings  soul-lifted  seem. 

On  the  tombstone  stands  the  Angel, 
And  its  left  hand  points  below  ; 

To  its  lips  is  pressed  a  finger : 
'T  is  the  Angel  Death,  I  know. 
109 


THE  BUKIED  RING. 

• 

Across  the  door-step,  worn  and  old, 
The  new  bride,  joyous,  pass'd  to-day; 

The  gray  rooms  show'd  an  artful  gold, 
All  words  were  light,  all  faces  gay. 

Ah,  many  years  have  lived  and  died 
Since  she,  the  other  vanish'd  one. 

Into  that  door,  a  timid  bride. 

Bore  from  the  outer  world  the  sun. 

0  lily,  with  the  rose's  glow  I 

0  rose,  the  lily's  garment  clad ! — 

The  rooms  were  golden  long  ago. 
All  words  were  blithe,  all  faces  glad. 

She  wore  upon  her  hand  the  ring. 

Whose  frail  and  human  bond  is  gone- 

A  coffin  keeps  the  jealous  thing 
Radiant  in  shut  oblivion : 
110 


THE   BURIED   RING. 

For  she,  (beloved,  who  loved  so  well,) 
In  the  last  tremors  of  her  breath, 

Whisper'd  of  bands  impossible — 

"She  would  not  give  her  ring  to  Death." 

But  he,  who  holds  a  newer  face 

Close  to  his  breast  with  eager  glow, 

Has  he  forgotton  her  embrace. 
The  first  shy  maiden's,  long  ago? 

Lo,  in  a  ghostly  dream  of  night, 

A  vision,  over  him  she  stands. 
Her  mortal  face  in  heavenlier  light. 

With  speechless  blame  but  blessing  hands! 

And,  smiling  mortal  sorrow's  pain 
Into  immortal  peace  more  deep. 

She  gives  him  back  her  ring  again — 
The  new  bride  kisses  him  from  sleep! 
Ill 


AT  CHRISTMAS  EVE. 

I  SAW  the  tide  of  Christinas 

Within  the  darkness  rise : 
It  flow'd  in  the  hearts  of  the  children, 

And  leap'd  in  their  loving  eyes. 

The  windows  breathed  the  splendor 

Of  the  joyous  day  at  hand ; 
In  the  rainy  streets  of  the  city 

Shone  visions  of  Fairy-Land. 

There  were  ships  and  cars  and  houses, 

BuUt  marvelously  well ; 
Fruits  from  the  Tropics  of  Fancy, 

And  flowers  of  Miracle  ! 

There  were  picture-books  of  enchantment 
Gems  from  the  wonder-mines ; 

The  ark  with  the  world's  old  family, 
And  myriad  new  designs. 
112 


AT   CHRISTMAS    EVE. 

There  were  birds  and  beasts  unnumbered, 

Unnamed  by  me,  I  am  sure ; 
And,  wearing  many  costumes, 

The  world  in  miniature. 

"  Many  a  Ti'ee  of  Christmas 

Is  loaded  with  joy  to-night ; 
Many  a  bough  shall  blossom. 

Enchanted,  at  morning  light !" 

I  said,  and  thought  of  the  children, 

In  many  a  dancing  home, 
For  the  Angel  of  Christmas  waiting 

And  longing  for  him  to  come. 

"  They  press  their  joyous  faces 

Against  the  darkened  pane, 
And  the  lighted  world  behind  them 

They  see  without  in  the  rain  !" 

I  said,  and  thought  of  the  children, 
Abroad  in  the  street  at  night. 

Who  know  no  Angel  of  Christmas 
By  gifts  at  morning  light : 
10  113 


AT    CHHIi^TMAS    EV:S. 

"  Tney  pres*  their  saddened  £ices 

Against  the  lighted  pane 

And  the  darkend  world  behind  them 

They  feel,  without  in  the  rain  I*' 
lU 


While  stealthy  breezes  kiss  to  frosty  gold 
The  gwells  of  foliage  down  the  vale  serene. 
And  all  the  sunset  fills 
The  dreamland  of  the  hills, 
Now  all  the  enchantment  of  October  old 
Feels  a  cold  reil  fell  o'er  its  passing  scene. 

Low  sounds  of  Antnmn  creep  along  the  plains. 
Through  the  wide  stillness  of  the  woodlands  brown, 
Where  the  still  waters  glean 
The  melancholy  scene ; 
The  cattle,  lingering  slow  through  river  lanes, 
Brush   yellowing  vines  that  swing  through  elm- 
trees  down. 

The  forests,  climbing  up  the  northern  air, 
Wear  far  an  azure  slumber  through  the  light, 
Showing,  in  pictures  strange. 
The  stealthy  wand  of  change  ; 
The  com  shows  languid  breezes,  here  and  there — 
Faint-heard  o'er  all  the  bottoms  wide  and  bright. 

115 


SUNDOWN. 

On  many  a  silent  circle  slowly  blown, 

Tlie  hawk,  in  sun-flusli'd    calm  suspended  liigli, 
Witli  careless  trust  of  might 
Slides  wing-wide  through  the  lights— 
Now   golden  through  the  restless  dazzle  shown. 
Now  drooping  down,  now  swinging  up  the  sky. 

Wind-worn  along  their  sunburnt  gables  old, 
The  barns  are  full  of  all  the  Indian  sun, 
In  golden  quiet  wrought 
Like  webs  of  dreamy  thought, 
And  in  their  Winter  clasp  serenely  fold 

The  green  year's  earnest  promise  harvest-won. 

With  evening  bells  that  gather,  low  or  loud, 
A  village,  through  the  distance,  poplar-bound, 
O'er  meadows  silent  grown, 
And  lanes  with  crisp  leaves  strown, 
Lifts  up  one  spire,  aflame,  against  a  cloud 

That  slumbers  eastward,  slow  and  silver-crowned, 

116 


WHITE   FROST. 

The  ghostly  Frost  is  come ; 

I  feel  liim  iu  the  uight; 
The  breathless  Leaves  are  numb, 

Motionless  with  affright : 
The  moon,  arisen  late  and  still, 
Sees  all  their  faces  beaded  chill. 

The  ghostly  Froit  is  here. 

I  see  him  in  the  nigbt; 
Through  all  the  meadows  near 

Waver  his  garments  white : 
Ha!  at  our  window  looking  through? 
Ah,  Frost,  this  Fire  would  conquer  youl 


PASSENGERS. 

Night  held  aloft  the  gentle  star, 
Her  earliest  watchfire  in  the  dark, 

And  by  the  window  of  the  car 

Flutter'd  and  flew  the  hurrying  spark. 

Its  pathway  finding  through  the  snows, 

The  train  rush'd  on  with  tremulous  roar- 
Like  one  whose  purpose  burns  and  glows. 
A  torch  to  lead  his  life,  before. 

The  darkness  grew  around  the  face 
Of  every  traveler  for  the  night : 

A  sudden  vision  fill'd  the  place 

And  touch'd  the  gloom  with  tender  light. 

Not  from  the  holy  world  unknown: 

A  gentle  mission  of  the  air 
From  happy  hearth  and  threshold  flown, 

Familiar  angels,  gather'd  there. 
118 


PASSENGERS. 

0  prayers  that  breathe  from  faces  bright, 

0  thoughts  of  love  that  will  not  sleep, 
0  dreams  that  give  the  soul  by  night 

Its  wings  the  body  may  not  keep ! 

Not  unattended,  far  away, 

The  wanderer  moves  with  throngs  unknown  ; 
Ye  meet  or  follow,  night  or  day — 

1  saw  your  heavenly  shapes  alone  1 

119 


FORESIGHT   OF   FATE. 

Mother  and  Child  walk  in  a  patli  of  flowers, 
Througli  a  bright  garden  tended  by  the  Hours. 

From  gentle  blossoms,  fragrant-hearted  there, 
Birds,  singing,  lift  the  child's  heart  into  air. 

Some  dreadful  House  before  them  grows,  unknown : 
A  ghost  of  grated  casements  stares  from  stone ! 

Whence  came  the  phantom? — what  enchantment  wild? 
The  Mother  sees  it  not  nor  can  the  child. 

Lo,  some  lost  face,  haunting  with  dreamy  glare 
The  darkness,  looking  through  the  darkness  there  1 

How  strange  if  he,  lost  to  himself  within. 
Were  that  same  child  pure  as  a  rose  from  sin  j 


And  if  that  face,  through  those  fierce  bars  aglare, 

g  tc 
120 


Saw  that  same  Child  cling  to  that  Mother's  care 


TO   ONE   IN  A  DAKKENED   HOUSE. 

0  FRIEND,  whose  loss  is  mine  in  part, 
Your  grief  is  mine  in  part,  altliougli 

1  can  not  measure  in  my  heart 
The  immeasurable  woe. 

As  from  a  shining  window  cast 

The  fireside's  gleam  abroad  is  known, 

I  knew  the  brightness  that  is  pass'd — 
Its  inner  warmth  your  own. 

0  vanish'd  firelight !— dark,  without, 
The  late  illumined  sphere  of  space ; 

The  warmth  within  has  died  about 
Your  darken'd  heart  and  face. 

If  I  could  hide  your  gloom  with  light, 
Or  breathe  you  back  the  warmth  of  old- 

0  vain!     I  stand  in  outer  night 
And  feel  your  inner  cold ! 
11  121 


THE  BIRTHDAYS. 

0  MORNING,  s-weet  and  bright  and  clear ! 
Anew  the  earth  seems  blossoming : 

In  Summer's  swarthy  heart  I  hear 
The  fountain-heads  of  Spring. 

It  is  your  birthday,  dearest  one — 
Far-off  from  you  this  simimer  day, 

1  think  of  many  another  sun 
That  August  took  from  May : 

When — for  your  honor — sweet  and  bright, 
The  month  of  dust  and  dead  perfume 

Remember'd  May's  delicious  light, 
Her  gentle  breath  and  bloom. 

I  dream  of  many  a  birthday  blithe. 
Baptizing  earth  with  loving  dew, 

"When  Time  the  reaper  hid  his  scythe 
And  gather'd  flowers  for  you. 
122 


THE   BIBTHDAYS. 

Lo,  first  I  see  the  morning,  love, 

That  on  your  mother's  tender  breast, 

A  wingless  bird  from  Heaven  above, 
You  found  your  earthly  nest. 

Your  childhood's  birthdays  come  and  go. 
Stealing  from  shining  day  to  day 

A  lovely  child  with  whom,  I  know, 
The  faii-ies  loved  to  play. 

Your  grand  old  kinsman,  Boone,  I  guess- 
Ulysses  of  the  Indian  wild — 

Enjoy'd  no  dearer  loneliness 
Than  you  a  wandering  child. 

Shy  as  the  butterfly  you  went 
On  visits  to  your  baby  flowers, 

Among  the  lonely  birds  content 
To  pass  unlonely  hours. 

Nature,  I  deem,  those  birthdays  caught 
You  to  her  breast  in  solitude  : 

Her  loveliest  picture-books  she  brought 
And  read  you  in  the  wood. 

123 


THE   BIRTHDAYS. 

All  lovely  things  she  gave  your  love  : 
The  humble  flowers,  the  stars  on  high, 

The  lightning's  awful  wing  above, 
The  tremulous  butterfly. 

My  fancy,  love-created,  goes 

Lightly  from  passing  year  to  year : 

My  little  fairy  maiden  grows 
To  tender  girlhood  dear. 

A  dreaming  girl,  as  shy  as  dew 

In  dells  of  Fairyland  apart. 
Within  your  soul  a  lily  grew — 

A  rose  within  your  heart. 

I  follow  on  your  changeful  way, 

Lift  all  the  burdens  from  your  hours, 

Make  you  my  constant  queen  of  May 
And  wreathe  your  birthday  flowers. 

My  fancy  follows  :  ah,  perchance, 
I,  Fairy  Prince  of  fable  true, 

Found  you  asleep  in  fated  trance 
And  kiss'd  you  ere  you  knew  1 
124 


THE    BIRTHDAYS. 

They  come,  they  vanish — swift  or  slow — 
Oh,  long  unmask'd,  those  masked  years : 

At  last  the  birthdays  that  I  know 
I  see,  with  smiles  and  tears. 

Your  birthdays  which  are  mine  draw  nigh 
Lo,  yours  and  mine  are  join'd  in  one ! — 

Mine  with  the  blue-bird's  prophecy. 
Yours  with  the  August  sun  ! 

And,  look,  another  joins  the  two  : 

The  First  of  March,  the  August  day 

Mingle  their  tender  light  and  dew 

With  Marian's  in  May ! 
125 


TO    GRACE   AT   CHRISTMAS. 

WITH    AN"   EASTERN   FAIRY-BOOK. 

Sweet  Fairyland !  at  Christmas,  lo ! 

Thy  sunken  splendors  shine  » 

To  those  who,  Westward,  farther  go 

Out  of  the  East  divine — 
Dear  wonder- world  by  childhood  won, 
Lost  Miracle  of  the  Morning  sun  ! 

A  blind  man  prison'd  in  the  light. 

Still,  as  a  blinded  man,  I  look 
At  the  old  shapes  of  vanish'd  sight 

In  Memory's  Marvel-Book. 
I  turn  the  pages,  leaf  by  leaf, 
And  Fancy  makes-believe  belief! 

But  now  at  charmed  words,  alas  ! 

The  treasure-doors  have  Treasury  locks  ; 
Aladdin's  lamp  (or  gold  or  brass  ?) 

I  rub  :  the  Genius  knocks  ! — 
This  coal-oil  lamp  was  just  in  place : 
"  Come  in" — a  Genius  ?  No,  a  Grace  ! 

126 


TO    GRACE    AT   CHBISTMAS. 

Sweet  little  maiden,  to  your  sight 
Fairies  and  Fairy-worlds  may  rise ; 

The  East  to  you  shows  joyous  light 
Where  in  his  cradle  lies 

God's  Gentle  Child — this  lovely  morn 

I  saw  him  dead  and  crown'd  with  thorn ! 

A  dreamer's  fancy — never  mind  ; 

You'd  have  a  Fairy-Book,  you  said : 
A  gift  of  sunshine  gives  the  blind 

When  the  sweet  dreams  are  dead, 
I  pray  that  from  your  eyes  and  heart 
Faith,  the  True  Fairy,  '11  ne'er  depart! 
December  25,  1862. 

127 


THE  LAST  FIRE. 

The  First  Fire,  one  remember' d  night 
Of  chilly  faU,  we  kindled  :  bright 

And  beautiful  were  its  gleams 
Warming  the  new  world  all  our  own 
And  welcoming  radiant  futures,  shone 

That  prophecy  of  our  dreams ! 

Our  window  burn'd  against  the  cold, 
And  faces  from  the  dark,  behold ! 

In  transient  haloes  came  ; 
The  household  troubadour  cf  mirth, 
The  cricket,  took  with  song  our  hearth 
*  And  bless'd  the  blessing  flame. 

O  flushing  firelight,  rosy-warm  ! 
O  walls  with  many  a  floating  form 

Of  dreamy  shade  a-bloom ! 
Fancy,  by  Love  transfigured,  wrought 
All  miracles  of  tender  thought, 

Transfiguring  the  room ! 
128 


THE    LAST    FIRE. 

Beloved  and  bless'd  and  beautified, 
God-given,  Angel  by  my  side  ! 

The  winter  came  and  went, 
And  never,  since  the  world  began, 
Grew  sweeter  happiness  to  man. 

Or  tenderer  content. 

At  dawn  we  leave  the  place,  so  warm 
And  bright  with  you  December's  storm 

Nor  cold  nor  shadow  brought : 
The  Last  Fire  warms  our  walls  to-night ; 
The  window  breathes  its  wonted  light, 

But  sadness  haunts  our  thought. 

By  tenderest  tides  of  feeling  stirr'd 
Tour  heart  brings  tears  for  every  word : 

I  hear  you  murmur  low, 
"  Here  blossomed  Home  for  you  and  me — 
Love  walk'd  without  his  glamoury 

And  stood  diviner  so. 

"Dear  echoes,  answering  day  by  day — 

We  cannot  take  the  past  away  ! 

The  threshold  and  the  floor, 

Where  Love's  familiar  steps  have  been 

Repeated  evermore  within. 

Are  dear  forever  more  !" 
129 


THE    LAST    FIRE. 

Yes,  but  the  place  beloved  shaU  be 
Bequeath'd  to  loving  Memory : 

The  spirits  of  the  place, 
The  Lares  of  the  household  air, 
Born  of  the  heart,  the  heart  must  bear — 

They  know  no  stranger's  face. 

The  atmosphere  we  fill  is  ours : 

It  moves  with  us  its  sun  and  showers ; 

It  is  our  world  alone, 
Vivid  with  all  our  souls  create, 
The  plastic  dream,  the  stone  of  Fate — 

We  take  and  keep  our  own. 

So  let  the  Last  Fire  flame  and  fall, 
The  ghostly  ember-shadows  crawl, 

The  ashes  fill  the  hearth : 
The  cricket  travels  where  we  go. 
And  Home  is  but  the  Heaven  below 

Transfiguring  the  Earth ! 
130 


TP  MY  BROTHER  GUY, 

AFTER    BUTTERFLIES. 

I  HAVE  watch'd   you,  little  Guy, 
Chasing  many  a  butterfly; 
I  have  seen  you,  boy,  by  stealth 
Strive  to  pluck  the  flying  wealth 
From  the  blossoms  where  it  grew, 
Miracle  of  a  moment  new; 
I  have  seen  your  redden'd  face, 
Radiant  from  the  bootless  chase, 
Happy-eyed,  with  gladness  sweet 
Laugh  away  each  late  defeat; 
I  have  heard  your  panting  heart, 
Eager  for  another  start, 
Taking  newer  chances  fair 
For  the  elusive  flower  of  air. 
I'll  not  check  your  joyous  chase, 
Calling  it  a  useless  race; 
I  will  not  discourage  you 
With  experience  seeming-true, 
131 


TO    MY   BROTHER   GUY, 

Showing  you  witli  cynic  art 
Chrysales  within  my  heart; 
I  '11  not  whisper,  prophesying, 
That  the  wings  are  golden,  flying — 
Dropping  all  their  pretty  dust 
At  the  touch  of  the  sweet  trust: 
Words  of  warm  simplicity, 
Fusing  cold  philosophy, 
These  would  light  your  lips  and  brow — 
You  would  chase  them  anyhow! 
Chase  them,  fleet-foot  champion. 
Lithe  knight-errant  of  the  sun! 
Chase  the  sultry  butterflies, 
Tropic  summers  in  disguise! 
Chase  them,  while  your  buoyant  feet 
Take  the  heart's  ecstatic  beat, 
While  your  playmate  is  the  breeze, 
While  the  flowers  will  hide  the  bees, 
While  the  birds  come  singing  to  you. 
While  the  sunshine  gladdens  through  you  I 
Butterflies,  if  caught  or  not. 
Thorough  many  a  gentle  spot 
They  will  lead — though  vain  the  chase 
It  must  be  in  the  heaven's  face: 
132 


TO   MY   BROTHER   GUY. 

For  they  fly  among  the  flowers, 
In  bright  air,  through  sunny  hours. 
Chase  them — nothing's  dead  nor  dying: 
Look,  your  butterflies  are  flying! 
133 


RESURRECTION. 

No  season,  0  friend,  may  seem 
Dearer  than  that  through  which  I  seem'd  to  go 
When  the  blind  Fever,  piloting  my  dream. 

Drifted  me  to  and  fro. 

I  thought  that  you  were  lost : 
That  Light  in  the  dark,  or  Shadow  in  the  sun, 
Had  taken  you;  and  helpless  I  was  toss'd — 

Comfortless  and  undone ! 

Through  all  familiar  air 
That  you  had  breathed  I  wander'd,  but  I  found 
Only  your  absence  in  my  own  despair — 

0  never-healing  wound ! 

1  could  not  find  you,  and 

I  knew  I  could  not ;  in  a  grave  you  lay 
Which  I  had  seen  not — over  dust  and  sand 
Blown  in  a  wind's  lost  way ! 
134 


RESURRECTION. 

At  last  you  came  :  behold, 
I  saw  you — from  among  the  dead,  I  deem'd : 
Not  free  from  Death,  but  bearing  as  of  old 

Your  living  child,  you  seem'd. 

White  with  the  following  light 
Of  some  new  world,  whose  darkness  we  but  know 
Who  blindly  look,  you  claim'd  your  dearest  right, 

The  mother's  place,  below. 

A  mother's  tender  heart, 
That  would  not  rest,  had  brought  you  to  your  own. 
They  told  me  soon  again  you  must  depart 

And  leave  your  world  alone. 

But  still  you  stay'd  and  still 
You  would  not  go,  and  Life  again  at  last 
Renew'd  the  warm  persuasion  of  its  will, 

Breathing,  and  held  you  fast. 

And  so  my  dream  was  gone. 
Lo,  I  had  wander'd  almost  to  that  brink 
Where  the  great  Darkness  standing  in  the  Dawn 

Makes  the  night-traveler  shrink, 
135 


RESURRECTION. 

'Twas  I  had  pass'd  away, 
And  my  return  that  brought  you  back  to  me ; 
I,  blind  in  the  mist — you,  vanish'd  in  the  day, 

Return'd  when  I  could  see. 

And,  still  unwearying,  lo  ! 
Though  worn  and  weary,  you  had  trembled  near, 
0  tender  watcher,  fearino;  I  should  eo. 

And  hoping  out  your  fear ! 
136 


MOONEISE. 

'Tis  midniglit  and  the  city  lies 
"With  dreaming  heart  and  closed  eyes : 
The  giant's  folded  hands  at  rest, 
Like  Prayer  asleep,  are  on  his  breast. 

From  windows  hush'd,  I  see  alone 
The  tide-worn  streets  so  silent  grown : 
The  dusty  footprints  of  the  day 
Are  bless'd  with  dew  and  steal  away. 

Oh,  scarce  a  pulse  of  sound !    Afar, 

Flashes  upon  a  spire  a  star — 

Lo,  in  the  East  a  dusky  light : 

Ghost-like  the  moon  moves  through  the  night. 

Unveiling  slow,  a  face  of  blood 
She  lifts  into  the  solitude ! 
The  city  sleeps ;  above,  behold 
The  moonrise  kiss  a  cross  of  gold ! 
12  137 


MOONRISE. 

Golden  in  air  tliat  cross :  at  rest 

Below  the  city's  sleeping  breast ; 

And  on  the  cross,  moon-brighten'd,  see ! 

Christ,  dying,  smiles  down  lovingly ! 

138 


TO  A  CHILD. 

Oh,  while  from  me,  this  tender  morn,  depart 

Dreams  vague  and  vain  and  wild, 
Sing,  happy  child,  and  dance  into  my  heart. 

Where  I  was  once  a  child ! 

Your  eyes  they  send  the  butterflies  before. 

Your  lips  they  kiss  the  rose ; 
0  gentle  child,  Joy  opes  your  morning  door — 

Joy  kisses  your  repose  ! 

The  fairy  Echo-children  love  you,  try 

To  steal  your  loving  voice ; 
Flying  you  laugh — they,  laughing  while  you  fly. 

Gay  with  your  glee  rejoice. 

Oh,  while  from  me,  this  tender  morn,  depart 

Dreams  vague  and  vain  and  wild, 
Play,  happy  child — sing,  dance  within  my  heart, 

Where  I  will  be  a  child ! 

139 


THE   BLUE-BIRD'S   BUBIAL. 


After  long  rains  November,  iu  a  brief  dream  of 

Spring, 
Had   the    tearful   eyes   of  April ;    some   trees   were 

blossoming. 

But,    long  before,  October  dear  April's  bloom  had 

bless'd — 
Her  goldenest  hope  lay  ripen'd  upon  his  swarthy 

breast. 

Hush'd  were  the  noons  and   leafless  the  boughs  of 

the  cherry  tree, 
Where  the  blue-bird  sang  as  prophet,  and  as  preacher 

humm'd  the  bee. 

Deep  in  her  palace  of  honey  the  queen-bee  dream'd 

of  Spring, 
And  moved   in    winter  slumber  while  the  trees  were 


blossoming. 


140 


THE    BLUE-BIRD  S   BURIAL. 

And  the  blue-bird  dropp'd — remember,  we  buried 
him,  darling,  found 

With  the  dead  leaves,  nameless,  homeless,  and  coffin- 
less,  on  the  ground. 

We  found  him  and  bless'd  and  buried  the  prophet 

of  blossom  and  bee, 
With  painted  leaves  for  his  cover,  under  his  laurel 

tree: 

Saying,  "  Dear   poet   and  prophet,   you   bless'd   the 

world,  we  know; 
We  give  you  the  poet's  guerdon — a  grave  in  Winter 

snow. 

"  But  blessed  and  blessing  forever  shall  be  the  life 

you  led ; 
Your  breath  was  a  breath  of  heaven — sleep  warm  in 

the  Earth's  cold  bed. 

"  Forgotten    and    unremember'd  ? — remember'd    and 

unforgot ! 
Your  soul  shall  rise  and  flutter  from  many  a  poet's 

thought ; 

141 


THE    blue-bird's   BURIAL. 

"And   all    the   haunted   silence    deep   in   the   poet's 

breast, 
Of  Spring  and  Love  and  Longing,  shall   rise  with 

wings,  express'd. 

"  Sleep,  therefore,  April's  darling,  twin  of  the  violet 
dead, 

With  the  ghost  of  song  in  your  bosom,  the  star- 
flower  at  your  head." 

II. 

You  found  the  star-flower,  dearest.    0  never — though 

all  the  years 
Go   out  with   dirges  and   darkness   and   comfortless 

Rachel's  tears — 

Shall  flush  the  world  with  fragrance  a  Spring  so  lovely 

here 
As  the  dream  of  Spring,  in  Autumn,  to  me  you  made 

so  dear ; 

When,  wandering  in  the  woodland,  that  gentle  day, 

we  found 
The  blue-bird,  nameless,  homeless,  and  coffinless,  on 

the  ground  ; 

142 


THE    BLUE-BIRD  S    BURIAL. 

When,  ctild  at  lieart  forever,  but  woman  sweet  and 
brave, 

With  world-old,  tender  fancies,  you  kiss'd  the  blue- 
bird's grave. 

That  night  the  late,  hush'd  moonrise  came,  dusky, 

large  and  red : 
Jewel'd  with  frosty  jewels  it  saw  November  dead. 

Within,  our  fire  kept  dancing  to  all  sweet  dreams  and 

bright : 
You  said,  "I  hear  the  blue- bird  sing  in  my  heart 


to-night." 


143 


SLEEP. 

The  Mist  crawls  over  the  River 


Hiding  the  shore  on  either  side, 
And,  under  the  veiling  Mist  forever, 
Neither  hear  we  nor  feel  we  the  tide. 

But  our  skiff  has  the  will  of  the  River, 
Though  nothing  is  seen  to  be  pass'd ; 

Though  the  Mist  may  hide  it  forever,  forever 
The  current  is  drawing  as  fast. 

The  matins  sweet  from  the  far-off  town 
Fill  the  air  with  their  beautiful  dream ; 

The  vespers  were  hushing  the  twilight  down 
When  we  lost  our  oars  on  the  stream. 
144 


FROST  o:n'  the  panes. 

Before  my  window  standing 
I  see  the  dream-like  glow 

Of  Frost  against  the  dawning : 
Old  fancies  come  and  go. 

A  little  child  is  gazing, 
With  wonder-lighted  eyes, 

Before  the  white  enchantment 
That  veils  the  morning  skies. 

His  mother  steals  beside  him : 
The  marvellous  pictm'e  gleams— 

The  Fairy,  Frost,  has  painted 
His  Fairy  world  of  dreams  ! 

Weird  woodlands  shine  enchanted 

With  crystal  boughs  so  bright. 

Where  ghouls  alone  have  wander'd ; 

Strange  castles  haunt  the  hight. 
13  145 


FKOST   ON  THE   PANES. 

Lo,  while  the  child  is  gazing, 
The  white  enchantment 's  fled. 

And  I,  alone,  awaken, 
And  Fairyland  is  dead  ! 

I  look  out  through  the  window : 
The  market  roars  and  beats, 

With  myriad  wheels  and  footsteps 
The  crowded  morning  streets. 

Tears  stand  upon  the  window. 
For  the  frost-work's  fragile  gleam, 

And  on  my  cheek  are  tear-drops. 
Old  relics  of  my  dream. 

Tears  shine  upon  the  window. 

Where  the  frost-work  flash'd  before : 

Ah,  in  Time's  Eastern  windows 

Are  frosted  panes  no  more  1 
146 


TO  THE  LARES. 

Dear  Household  Deities,  worshipp'd  best,  we  deem, 

With  gentle  sacrifice  of  Love  alone  ! 
Guardians  of  Home,  who  make  the  hearthstone  seem 

Altar  and  shrine,  0  make  our  hearth  your  own : 
Whether  the  North-wind  walls  the  world  away 

With  snowy  bastions  from  his  frozen  lands, 
Or  Zephyr  through  our  window,  day  by  day, 

Climbs  like  a  child  with  roses  in  his  hands. 

147 


BeNJAJVIEST  M.   PlAlT. 

Ob.  April    20,  1863 — ^t.  84. 

Neae  his  loved  home,  among  familiar  flowers, 
(Whose  memories  mingle  fragrant  breath  with  ours,) 
Sleeps  a  gray  father  of  the  mighty  West. 
His  hands  had  Nature's  plea  for  folded  rest : 
For,  through  long  years  and  manhood's  noble  strife, 
Whiten'd  his  head  above  his  golden  life. 
He  pass'd  as  one  who  from  his  harvest  goes. 
Attended  by  the  sun,  to  his  repose — 
Gracious  and  good.     Behold  his  simple  fame : 
He  lies  asleep  beneath  his  honor'd  name. 

148 


FOR  A  GRAVESTONE. 

The  marble  has  no  speech  but  that  we  give, 
And  we  are  dumb,  and,  speechless,  pass  awaj  ■ 

The  silence  in  which  our  affections  live 

Holds  all  we  need  to  speak  and  can  not  say. 

149 


THE  SIGHT   OF  ANGELS. 

The  angels  come,  the  angels  go, 

Through  open  doors  of  purer  air ; 
Their  moving  presence  oftentimes  we  know, 

It  thrills  us  every-where. 

Sometimes  we  see  them :  lo,  at  night, 
Our  eyes  were  shut  hut  open'd  seem : 

The  darkpess  hreathes  a  breath  of  wondrous  light, 
And  then  it  was  a   dream ! 

150 


SONNETS. 


MY  SHADOW'S  STATURE. 

Whene'er,  in  morning  airs,  I  walk  abroad. 
Breasting  upon  the  hills  the  buoyant  wind, 
Up  from  the  vale  my  shadow  climbs  behind, 
An  earth-born  giant  climbing  toward  his  god; 
Against  the  sun,  on  heights  before  untrod, 
I  stand:  faint  glorified,  but  undefined, 
Far  down  the  slope  in  misty  meadows  blind, 
I  see  my  ghostly  follower  slowly  plod. 
"0  stature  of  my  shade,"  I  muse  and  sigh, 
"How  great  art  thou,  how  small  am  I  the  while  1" 
Then  the  vague  giant  blandly  answers,  "  True, 
But  though  thou  art  small  thy  head  is  in  the  sky, 
Crown'd  with  the  sun  and  all  the  Heaven's  smile — 
My  head  is  in  the  shade  and  valley  too." 

153 


MY  NIGHTMARE. 

All  day  my  nightmare  in  my  thought  I  keep : 
Spell-bound,   it    seem'd,    by    some    magician's 

charm, 
A  giant  slumber'd  on  my  slothful  arm — 
His  great,  slow  breathings  jarr'd  the  land  of  sleep, 
(Like  far-off  thunder,  rumbling  low  and  deep,) 
Lifting  his  brawny  bosom  bronzed  and  warm — 
When  lo !  a  voice  shook  me  with  stern  alarm  : 
"  Who  art  thou  here  that  dost  not  sow  nor  reap  ? 

Behold  the  Sleeping  Servant  of  thy  Day — 
Arouse  him  to  thy  deed :  if  thou  but  break 

His  slumberous  spell,  awake  he  will  obey." 
I  lifted  up  my  voice  and  cried  "  Awake  !" 
And  I  awoke  ! — my  arm,  unnerved,  lay  dead, 
A  useless  thing  beneath  my  sleeping  head  ! 

My  Birthday,  1863. 

164 


/ 


TO  A  POET:  ON  HIS  MAERIAGE. 

"  The  Artist  with  his  Art  alone  should  wed," 
They  say,  the  worldly  wise,  "who  runs  may 

read ;" 
And  I  would  grant  it  holy  truth  indeed, 

Did  Art  want  men  in  whom  the  man  was  dead — 

Pale  priesthood.  But  with  fullest  life,  instead, 
She  ordains  her  truer  worshippers  :  her  need 
Is  men  who  live  as  well  as  dream  their  deed ; 

She  loves  to  see  her  lovers  sweat  for  bread. 

My  friend,  I  know  you  not  as  one  who  bear. 
Dream-like,  upon  your  soul  the  ideal  sphere 

And  kick  the  real  world  beneath  your  feet : 

I  see  you,  brave  young  Atlas,  lift  in  air 
The  loving  load  of  manhood,  without  fear. 

Both  worlds  be  one  to  you,  a  world  complete ! 

II. 

If  you  should  ask  me  what  your  life  should  seem. 
Built  by  the  great,  slow  mason.  Time,  for  you, 
(My  wishes  being  master-builders,  too,) 

I'd  say  a  grand  cathedral,  with  the  stream 

155 


TO   A   POET  :    02f   HIS   MAREIAGE. 

Of  wondrous  light  through  windows  all  a-gleam 

With  heavenliest   shapes   and   sacred   historiet 
true 

Of  truest  lives  that  e'er  immortal  grew 
From  low  mortality's  divinest  dream. 
Above,  uplifted  on  some  chaunt  divine, 

An  angel  choir  should  cluster,  dumb  in  stone ; 
Below,  and  rapt  in  the  religious  air, 
Most  saintly  brows  should  with  a  halo  shine : 

And,  amid  marble  multitudes  alone, 

Lo !  one  sweet  woman's  face  the  holiest  there  I 

166 


THE  BOOK  OF  GOLD. 


I. 


If  I  could  write  a  Book  made  sweet  with  thee, 
And  therefore  sweet  with  all  that  may  be  sweet, 
With  lingering  music  never  more  complete 
Should  turn  its  golden  pages  :  each  should  be 
Like  whispering  voices,  beckoning  hands,  and  he 
"Who  read  should  follow,  while  his  heart  would 

beat 
For  some  new  miracle,  with  most  eager  feet 
Through  loving  labyrinths  of  mystery. 
Temple  and  lighted  home  of  Love  should  seem 
The  Book  wherein  my  love  remember'd  thine : 
There  holiest  visions  evermore  should  gleam. 
Vanishing  wings,  with  wandering  souls  of  sound 
And  breaths  of  incense  from  an  inmost  shrine 
Sought  nearer  evermore  and  never  found. 

II. 

Vague  wishes,  in  my  bosom,  never  cold 
Brought  these  vague  words  to  me  one  Summer 
night, 

Longing  to  prison  in  crystal  the  sweet  light 

157 


THE   BOOK   OF   GOLD. 

My  soul  had  breathed  and  write  a  Book  of  Gold 

To  keep  my  love  within  the  radiant  fold 

Of  Love's  true  heraldry  in  histories  bright ; 

And  Love,  the  only  poet,  whisper'd  "  Write," 

When  I  began  with  impulse  overbold 

Which   had  dumb   lips — then,  turning,   spake   to 

Love: 
"  Sweet  Master,  how  shall  I,  unskilful,  know 
To  speak  of  thee  and  thine,  all  things  above  ?" 
"  I  still  shall  hold  thy  hand  and  guide  thy  heart ; 
Let  what  is  mine  be  thine,"  he  answer'd  low, 
"  And  what  is  artful  Love's  thy  loving  Art." 

168 


TRAVELERS. 

We  may  not  stand  content :  it  is  our  part 
To  drag  slow  footsteps  after  the  far  sight, 
The  long  endeavor  following  up  the  bright 
Quick  aspiration ;  there  is  ceaseless  smart 
Feeling  but  cold-hand  surety  for  warm  heart 
Of  all  desire;  no  man  may  say  at  night 
His  goal  is  reach'd;  the  hunger  for  the  light 
Moves  with  the  star;  our  thirst  will  not  depart, 
Howe'er  we  drink.     'Tis  what  before  us  goes' 
Keeps  us  aweary,  will  not  let  us  lay 
Our  heads  in  dreamland,  though  the  enchanted  palm 
Rise  from  our  desert,  though  the  fountain  grows 
Up  in  our  path,  with  slumber's  flowering  balm : 
The  soul  is  o'er  the  horizon  far  away. 

159 


ANNIVERSARY. 

A  Mother  and  a  Child,  most  blessed  sight. 
My  spirit  saw — a  pure  and  holy  pair: 
The  infant  open-eyed  to  morning  air 
Of  its  new  world,  baptized  in  earthly  light ; 
The  Mother  with  the  ecstatic  knowledge  bright 
Of  her  first  motherhood,  how  gently  fair  I 
Breathing  her  blissful  breath  to  heaven  in  prayer, 
Keeping  her  heart  so  near  her  new  delight ! 
"Who  are  you,  gentle  visions?"  then  I  said — 
But  these  were  gone.     An  Angel  came  and  spoke : 
"I  am  that  mother;  see  my  darling's  head 
I  lay  upon  your  bosom."     I  awoke. 
Warm  with  great  tender  gratitude,  and  wept; 
Your  head  was  on  my  bosom  while  I  slept. 

IGO 


TWOFOLD. 

« 

If  you  should  vanisli,  in  some  lonely  place, 
And  never,  never  more  appear  again, 
(Thougli  your  lost  face  should  float  about  my  brain, 
The  elusive  phantom  of  a  lost  embrace. 
Out  of  the  mystery  of  a  starless  space,) 
And  I  should  strive,  with  long  conceptive  pain, 
"Sour  form  so  dear  from  marble  to  regain, 
Or  paint  the  flying  memory  of  your  face  : 
I  have  not  seen  you,  love,  as  others  deem — 
Though  stone  or  color  might  their  semblance  give, 
I  'd  watch  a  child  steal  shyly  from  your  heart, 
To  comfort  little  birds  that  orphans  seem, 
Or  flowers  that  need  a  drop  of  dew  to  live. 
And  this,  I  think,  would  baffle  subtle  art. 
14  161 


A  BUST  m  CLAY.* 

s.  p.  c. 

A  sroBLE  soul  is  breathing  from  the  claj, 
Created,  Sculptor,  with  a  soul  by  thee ; 
A  noble  soul  a  noble  man's  must  be  : 
One  of  a  few,  he  knelt  not  to  the  Day 
Nor  petty  stampings  of  the  applausive  Hour, 
But,  in  the  dark  of  her  uprising  light. 
Upheld  in  word  and  served  in  deed  the  Right, 
'Nor  sued  the  million-headed  mob  for  power. 
O  beautiful !  on  the  calm  lips,  content. 
Breathes  the  high  presence  of  a  life  well  spent ; 
Such  brows  the  centuries  love  !     No  marble  needs 
His  soul  that  carves  itself  in  marble  deeds  : 
Oh,  be  it  long — Ohio's  prayer  my  own — 
Ere  clay  or  marble  keeps  that  soul,  alone  I 

January,  1859. 

*  By  T.  D.  JoxES,  Sculptor,  Cmcinnati,  Ohio. 
162 


MIRAGE. 

I  KNOW  the  Mirage — tlie  vague,  wandering  ghost 
That  haunts  the  desert's  still  and  barren  sand 
"With  the  close  vision  of  a  lovelier  land, 
Once  blossoming  but  now  forever  lost: 
It  rises  to  the  eyes  of  men  who  bear 
Hunger  of  heart  and  thirst  of  lip  in  vain — 
Mocking  their  souls  with  rest.     Behold,  how  plain! 
Taking  the  breathless  sand  and  boundless  air, 
It  comes  up  from  the  horizon,  far  away: 
Lost  fountains  flutter  under  beckoning  palm, 
(Singing,  all  birds  of  longing  thither  start,) 
Dear  voices  rise  from  homes  where  children  play, 
The  footsteps  lighten,  the  blest  air  blows  balm. 
Then  all  is  sand — within  a  dreamer's  heart! 

163 


SEPTEMBER. 

All  things  are  full  of  life  this  autumn  morn; 
The  hills  seem  growing  under  silver  cloud; 
A  fresher  spirit  in  Nature's  breast  is  born; 
The  woodlands  are  blowing  lustily  and  loud; 
The  crows  fly,  cawing,  among  the  flying  leaves; 
On  sunward-lifted  branches  struts  the  jay; 
The  fluttering  brooklet,  quick  and  bright,  receives 
Bright  frosty  silverings  slow  from  ledges  gray 
Of  rock  in  buoyant  sunshine  glittering  out; 
Cold  apples  drop  through  orchards  mellowing; 
'Neath  forest-eaves  quick  squirrels  laugh  and  shout; 
Farms   answer   farms    as    through    bright   morns  of 

Spring, 
And  joy,  with  dancing  pulses  full  and  strong, 
Joy,  every -where,  goes  Maying  with  a  song ! 

164 


THE  WEEK. 

Sweet  Days,  God's  daughters,  shining  o'er  the  world ! 
Bright  are  your  feet  on  the  far  morning  shore. 
And,  going  hack  to  heaven  for  evermore 
Through  twilight's  dreamy  golden  gates  unfurl'd, 
Your  footsteps  in  the  dews  of  evening  shine. 
A  radiant  garland  round  the  burning  throne, 
Guarded  with  angel  wings — a  heavenly  zone — 
Fair  are  ye  all,  dear  Rays  of  Light  Divine ! 
Yet  fairest  is  she,  the  youngest  of  your  name, 
In  her  pure  garment  of  translucent  white. 
And  wearing  on  her  head  the  halo-light 
Brightening  till  all  things  near  her  wear  the  same: 
For — though  God  loves  ye  all — when  ye  are  hless'd 
His  Hand  lies  on  her  brow,   dear  Day  of  Rest! 

1(55 


THE   WHITE   LILY. 

I  dream'd  and  saw  a  lily  in  my  dream 
Of  fever'd  wakefulness  at  twiliglit  hour: 
Issuing  from  moonlight  grew  that  blessed  flower 
Over  my  pillow,  and  the  tender  gleam 
Of  its  white  gentleness,  like  a  soothing  stream, 
Alighted  on  me,  and  I  ask'd:  "What  dower 
Of  purity  is  thine,  that  'gainst  the  power 
Of  all  impurity  a  charm  doth  seem?" 
Transfigured  dreadlessly  the  lily  grew 
An  angel's  stature,  passing  so  away. 
Then  I  awoke  from  fever  which  had  been. 
But  in  that  dewy  presence  could  not  stay. 
And  over  me  you  lean'd  with  holier  dew. 
Out  of  your  heart  had  grown  the  flower  within. 

166 


AWAKE    IN   DARKNESS. 

Mother,  if  I  could  cry  from  out  the  nignt 

And  you  could  come  (Oh,  tearful  memory !) 

How-  softly  close !  to  soothe  and  comfort  me, 

As  when  a  child  awaken'd  with  affright, 

My  lips  again,  as  weak  and  helpless  quite, 

Would  call  you,  call  you,  sharp  and  plaintively — 

0  vain,  vain,  vain !     Your  face  I  could  not  see ; 

Your  voice  no  more  would  bring  my  darkness  light. 

To  this  shut  room,  though  I  should  wail  and  weep, 

You  would  not  come  to  speak  one  brooding  word 

And  let  its  comfort  warm  me  into  sleep 

And  leave  me  dreaming  of  its  comfort  heard : 

Though  all  the  night  to  morn  at  last  should  creep. 

My  cry  would  fail,  your  answer  be  deferr'd. 

November,  1865. 

167 


THE  CHILD  IN  THE  STREET. 

FOR  A  BOOK  OF  TWO. 

Even  as  tender  parents  lovingly 

Send  a  dear  child  in  some  true  servant's  care 
Forth  on  the  street,  for  larger  light  and  air, 

Feeling  the  sun  her  guardian  will  be, 

And  dreaming  with  a  blushful  pride  that  she 
Will  earn  sweet  smiles  and  glances  every-where, 
From  loving  faces,  and  that  passers  fair 

Will  bend,  and  bless,  and  kiss  her,  when  they  see, 

And  ask  her  name,  and  if  her  home  is  near. 
And  think,  "  0  gentle  child,  how  bless'd  are  they 
Whose  twofold  love  bears  up  a  single  flower  1 " 

And  so  with  softer  musing  move  away : 

We  send  thee  forth,  0  Book,  thy  little  hour — 

The  world  may  pardon  us  to  hold  thee  dear. 

168 


FIVE   TEARrv 


15 


THE  BRONZE  STATUE— APRIL,  1861. 

Uplifted  when  the  April  sun  was  down, 

Gold-lighted  by  the  tremulous,  fluttering  beam. 

Touching  his  glimmering  steed  with  spurs  in  gleam, 

The  Great  Virginia  Colonel  into  town 

Rode,  with  the  scabbard,  emptied,  on  his  thigh, 

The  Leader's  hat  upon  his  head,  and  lo ! 

The  old  still  manhood  in  his  face  aglow. 

And  the  old  generalship  up  in  his  eye ! 

"  O  father !"  said  I,  speaking  in  my  heart,  ' 

"  Though  but  thy  bronzed  form  is  ours  alone, 

And  marble  lips  here  in  thy  chosen  glace, 

Rides  not  thy  spirit  in  to  keep  thine  own. 

Or  weeps  thy  Land,  an  orphan  in  the  mart  ?" 

The  twilight  dying  lit  the  deathless  face. 

Washington,  D.  C. 

171 


HONORS  OF  WAR. 

Wails  of  slow  music  move  along  tlie  street. 
Before  the  slow  march  of  a  myriad  feet 

Whose  mournful  echoes  come; 
Banners  are  muffled,  hiding  all  their  sight 
Of  sacred  stars — the  century's  dearest  light— 

And,  muffled,  throbs  the  drum. 

Proud  is  the  hearse  our  Mother  gives  her  son, 
On  the  red  altar  laid  her  earliest  one! 

Wrapp'd  in  her  holiest  pall 
He  goes:  her  household  guardians  follow  him, 
Eyes  with  their  new  heroic  tears  are  dim; 

The  stern  to-morrows  call ! 

Well  might  the  youth  who  saw  his  coffin'd  face, 
Lying  in  state  within  the  proudest  place, 

Long  for  a  lot  so  high: 
He  was  the  first  to  leap  the  treacherous  wall; 
First  in  the  arms  of  Death  and  Fame  to  fall — 

To  live  because  to  die! 
172 


HONORS   OP    WAR 

Pass  on,  witbi  wails  of  music,  moving  slow, 
Thy  dark  dead-marcli,  0  Mother  dress'd  in  woe! 

Lo,  many  another  way 
Shall  blacken  after,  many  a  sacred  head 
Brightly  thy  stars  shall  fold,  alive  though  dead, 

From  many  a  funeral  day! 

• 

Weep,  but  grow  stronger  in  thy  suffering: 

From  their  dead  brothers'  graves  thy  sons  shall  bring 

New  life  of  love  for  thee: 
The  long  death-marches  herald,  slow  or  fast, 
The  resurrection-hour  of  men  at  last 

New-born  in  Liberty  1 
Washington,  May,  1861.  ^ 

173 


A  SABBATH  IN  JULY. 

A  TEAE  ago  to-day,  the  Sabbath  hours 

Were  sweet  to  us,  wandering  together,  here 
In  these  green  woods.     The  skies  were  soft  and 
clear. 
And  the  sim  wrought  his  miracles  in  flowers. 
Sweet  was  the  Sabbath  stillness  of  these  bowers ; 
The  birds  sang  in  the  tender  atmosphere. 
And  God's  own  voice  seem'd  whispering  low  and 
near 
To  His  hush'd  children  in  those  hearts  of  ours. 
Lo !  scarcely  mingling  with  the  real  day, 

Far  thunders  beat  in  the  heart  of  solitude, 
Echoes  of  Hell  to  Heaven's  divine  repose  : 

For,  while   we  breathed  the  breathless  Sabbath 
wood, 
The  cannon's  awful  monotone  arose 

Where    the    dread    Sabbath-breaking     Preacher 
stood ! 

July  21,  1862. 

174 


THE  NESTS  AT  WASHINGTON. 

Before  me  White  House  poncais, 
The  careless  eyes  behold 

Three  iron  bombs  uplifted, 
Adusk  in  summer  gold. 

In  dreamy  mood  I  wander'd 
At  Sabbath  sunset  there, 

While  the  wide  city's  murmur 
Hxmimed  vaguely  everywhere : 

"  Black  seeds  of  desolation," 
I  said,  "  by  War's  red  hand 

Sown  in  the  fierce  sirocco 
Over  the  wasted  Land! 

"  Unholy  with  the  holy, 

What  do  ye  here  to-day, 
Symbols  of  awful  battle. 

In  Sabbath's  peaceful  ray  ?" 
175 


THE   NESTS   AT   WASHINGTON. 

Angel  of  Dust  and  Darkness  ! 

I  heard  thy  woeful  breath, 
With  noise  of  all  earth's  battles, 

Answer :  "  Let  there  be  Death!" 

I  thought  of  many  a  midnight, 
Where  sprang  terrific  light 

Over  wide  woods  and  marshes ; 
Fierce  fire-flies  lit  the  night. 

I  saw  beleaguer'd  bastions 

Leap  up  in  red  dismay. 
Wide  rivers  all  transfigured 

Awake  in  dreadful  day. 

Asleep  in  peaceful  sunshine 
Glimmer'd  the  warlike  things : 

Into  their  hoUow  horror 

Flew  tenderest  summer  wings ! 

Deep  in  the  awful  chambers 

Of  the  gigantic  Death, 
The  wrens  theii-  nests  had  builded 

And  dwelt  with  loving  breath. 
176 


THE   NESTS   AT   WASHINGTON". 

Angel  of  Resurrection ! 

Over  all  buried  strife 
I  heard  thy  bird-song  whisper, 

Sweetly,  "  Let  there  be  Life !" 

Washington,  D.  C,  June,  1862. 

177 


SONNET— m  1862. 

Steek  be  the  Pilot  in  the  dreadful  hour 
When  a  great  nation,  like  a  ship  at  sea 
With  the  wroth  breakers  whitening  at  her  lee, 

Feels  her  last  shudder  if  her  Helmsman  cower ; 

A  godlike  manhood  be  his  mighty  dower  ! 
Such  and  so  gifted,  Lincoln,  may'st  thou  be 
With  thy  high  wisdom's  low  simplicity 

And  awful  tenderness  of  voted  power : 

From  our  hot  records  then  thy  name  shall  stand 
On  Time's  calm  ledger  out  of  passionate  days — 

With  the  pure  debt  of  gratitude  begim 
And  only  paid  in  never-ending  praise — 

One  of  the  many  of  a  mighty  Land 

Made  by  God's  providence  the  Anointed  One. 

178 


THE  BALLAD  OF  A  ROSE. 

My  folded  flower  last  Summer  grew 
Sweetly  in  a  glad  Southern  place; 

Its  heart  was  filled  with  peaceful  dew, 
The  peaceful  sunshine  kiss'd  its  face. 

Beside  the  threshold  of  a  cot 
It  knew  familiar  household  ties, 

The  May's  beloved  forget-me-nofc 
To  maiden's  lips  and  children's  eyes. 

Bees  climb'd  about  it;  birds  above 
Sang  in  the  flush'd  year  of  the  rose: 

"Our  new  millennium  of  Love 
Begins  with  every  May  it  blows." 

Warm  cottage-windows  murmur'd  near 
All  music  making  home  so  sweet — 

The  mother's  voice  divinely  dear, 

The  lisping  tongues,  the  pattering  feet. 

179 


THE   BALLAD   OF   A   ROSE, 

All,  little  rose,  another  tale 

On  your  dumb  lips  has  waited  long 

(Since  then  your  tender  lips  grew  pale) — 
Speak,  darling;  make  your  speech  my  song! 

Another  tale  than  cottage  peace, 
Than  balmy  quiet,  hovering  wings 

Of  humming-birds  and  honey-bees, 

And  Summer's  breath  of  shining  things. 

Ah,  little  rose,  your  lips  are  mute: 
Could  Fancy  give  them  words  to-day, 

Such  histories  would  but  sadly  suit 

Those  lips  that  knew  but  Love  and  May ! 

You  woke,  one  Sabbath,  warm  and  sweet: 
The  fields  were  bright  with  dewy  glow; 

The  sun  smiled  o'er  the  springing  wheat. 
And  spake,  "Let  all  things  lovelier  growl" 

What  answer  rock'd  the  awaken'd  earth, 
Strange  echo  to  that  voice  divine! 

Before  the  battle's  awful  birth 

The  earth  and  heaven  gave  no  sign. 

180 


THE    BALLAD    OP    A   ROSE. 

The  cannon  th.uncler'd  every-where ; 

The  bomb  sprang  howling  from  afar, 
A  coming  earthquake  born  in  air, 

A  winged  hell,  a  bursting  star! 

And  lo!  about  the  sacred  spot 

Where  late  the  doves  of  home  would  'light. 
Men  red  with  battle  falter'd  not 

Though  others  lay  with  faces  white. 

The  lowly  roof  of  Love,  behold ! 

Is  rent  by  shell  and  cannon-ball; 
The  rifles  flame  from  casements  old; 

By  bullets  torn  the  roses  fall! 

Under  the  rose-tree  where  you  grew, 
A  soldier,  dying,  look'd  and  saw 

Your  face,  that  only  Sabbath  knew. 
With  Nature's  love  and  Heaven's  law. 

He  heard  with  ebbing  blood  and  breath, 
At  your  sweet  charm,  the  thunder  cease, 

And  in  that  earthquake-hour  of  Death 
The  cannon  jarr'd  the  bells  of  Peace. 

181 


THE    BALLAD    OF    A   ROSE. 

For  while  he  saw  you,  tender  flower! 

So  peaceful  in  that  troubled  place, 
A  tenderer  vision  touch'd  the  hour 

And  left  its  halo  on  his  face. 

A  captain  pluck'd  you,  in  the  roar 
Of  battle,  o'er  his  comrade  slain, 

And  through  the  fight  your  beauty  bore 
Bloodless  upon  the  bloody  plain. 

Dear  rose,  within  your  folded  leaves 
I  know  what  other  memory  lies^ 

I  hear  (or  else  my  ear  deceives) 
Your  wail  of  homesick  longing  rise 

"  0  happy  Summer,  lost  to  me ! 

0  threshold,  mine  to  guard  no  more  ! " 
You  yearn  for  visits  of  the  bee 

To  rose's  heart  and  cottage-door. 

Rest  in  my  book,  0  precious  flower  ! 

And  seem — a  whitening  face  above — 
The  witness  in  the  battle  hour 

Of  Peace  and  Home,  of  God  and  Love ! 
1862.  182 


THE   OPEN   SLAVE-PEN. 

We  start  from  sleep  in  morning's  buoyant  dawn, 
And  find  the  horror  which  our  sleep  oppress'd 

A  vanish'd  darkness,  in  the  daylight  gone — 

The  nightmare's  burthen  leaves  the  stifled  breast. 

Yet  still  a  presence  moves  about  the  brain, 
Some  frightful  shadow  lost  in  hazy  light, 

And  in  the  noonday  highway  comes  again. 

The  loathsome  phantom  of  the  breathless  night. 

So,  while  before  these  hateful  doors  I  stand, 
I  feel  the  burdening  darkness  which  is  pass'd, 

Or  passing  surely  from  the  awaken'd  land : 
The  nightmare  clutches  me  and  holds  me  fast. 

Back  from  the  years  that  seem  so  long  ago 
Return  the  dark  processions  which  have  been ; 

Lifting  again  lost  manacles  of  woe 

They  enter  here — they  vanish,  going  in. 

183 


THE   OPEN   SLAVE-PEN. 

Hark  to  the  smother'd  murmur  of  a  race 

Within  these  walls — its  helpless  wail  and  moan — 

Which,  for  the  ancient  shadow  on  its  face, 

Call'd  not  the  morning's  new-born  light  its  own  I 

Imprison'd  here,  what  unforgotten  cries 
Of  hopeless  torture  and  what  sights  of  woe, 

From  cotton-field  and  rice-plantation  rise  ! — 

These  walls  have  heard,  and  seen,  and  witness  show. 

The  human  drove,  the  human  driver,  see ! 

Hark,  the  dread  bloodhound  in  the  swamp  at  bay ! 
The  whipping-post  reechoes  agony; 

The  slave-mart  blackens  all  the  shameful  day. 

The  wife  and  husband,  see,  asunder  thrust ; 

The  mother  dragg'd  from  her  far  children's  wail  j 
The  maiden  torn  from  love  and  given  to  lust — 

The  Human  Family  in  a  bill  of  sale ! 

All  sounds  reecho,  all  sights  reappear  : 

(0  blindness,  deafness  !  that  ye  can  not  be  !) 

All  sounds  of  woe,  that  have  been  heard,  I  hear ; 
All  sights  of  shame,  that  have  been  seen,  I  see ! 

184 

» 


THE    OPEN   SLAVE-PEN. 

0  sounds,  be'still !    0  visions,  leave  the  day ! — 
What  thunder  trembled  on  the  sultry  air  ? 

What  lightnings  went  upon  their  breathless  way  ? 
Behold  the  stricken  gates  of  old  despair ! 

The  writing  on  these  barbarous  walls  was  plain ; 

The  curse  has  fallen  none  would  understand ; 
God's  deluge  ere  another  happier  rain  ; 

His  plow  of  fire  before  the  reaper's  land  I 

The  awful  nightmare  slips  into  its  night, 

With  cannon-flash  and  noise  of  hurrying  shell  r 

0  prisons,  open  for  returning  light, 
The  sun  is  in  the  world,  and  all  is  well ! 

16  18a 


THE  DEAR  PRESIDET^T. 

Abraham  Lincoln,  the  Dear  President, 

Lay  in  the  Round  Hall  at  the  Capitol, 

And  there  the  people  came  to  look  their  last. 

There  came  the  widow,  weeded  for  her  mate ; 
There  came  the  mother,  sorrowing  for  her  son ; 
There  came  the  orphan  moaning  for  its  sire. 

There  came  the  soldier,  bearing  home  his  wound; 
There  came  the  slave,  who  felt  his  broken  chain  ; 
There  came  the  mourners  of  a  blacken'd  Land. 

Through  the  dark  April  day,  a  ceaseless  throng, 
They  pass'd  the  coffin,  saw  the  sleeping  face, 
And,  blessing  it,  in  silence  moved  away. 

And  one,  a  poet,  spake  within  his  heart: 

"It  harm'd  him  not  to  praise  him  when  alive, 

And  me  it  can  not  harm  to  praise  him  dead. 

186 


THE    DEAR   PRESIDENT 

''Too  oft  the  muse  has  blush'd  to  speak  of  men — 
No  muse  shall  blush  to  speak  her  best  of  him. 
And  still  to  speak  her  best  of  him  is  dumb. 

"  0  lofty  wisdom's  low  simplicity  I 

0  awful  tenderness  of  voted  power! — 

No  man  e'er  held  so  much  of  power  so  meeK. 

"He  was  the  husband  of  the  husbandless, 

He  was  the  father  of  the  fatherless  : 

Within  his  heart  he  weigh'd  the  common  woe. 

"His  call  was  like  a  father's  to  his  sons: 
As  to  a  father's  voice,  they,  hearing,  came — 
Eager  to  offer,  strive,  and  bear,  and  die. 

"  The  mild  bond-breaker,  servant  of  his  Lord, 
He  took  the  sword,  but  in  the  name  of  Peace, 
And  touched  the  fetter,  and  the  bound  was  free. 

"Oh,  place  him  not  among  the  historic  kings, 
Strong,  barbarous  chiefs  and  bloody  conquerors, 
But  with  the  great  and  pure  Republicans  : 

187 


THE   DEAR   PRESIDENT. 

"Those  who  have  been  unselfish,  wise,  and  good, 
Bringers  of  Light  and  Pilots  in  the  dark, 
Bearers  of  Crosses,  Servants  of  the  World. 

"And  always,  in  his  Land  of  birth  and  death, 
Be  his  fond  name — warm'd  in  the  people's  hearts- 
Abraham  Lincoln,  the  Dear  President." 

188 


TO  P..  C.  S. 

Dear  General,  in  the  Age  of  Chivalry — 

That  Golden  Age  of  Manhood,  whose  lost  seed 
Blossom'd  in  you — true  men  of  loyal  breed 

Bow'd  under  kingly  swords,  on  bended  knee, 

And  rose  with  Knighthood  holy,  sworn  to  be 
Champions  of  Right  and  guardians  at  her  need, 
Their  life  the  errand  of  some  noble  deed 

Halo'd  by  History,  crown'd  by  Poesy. 

But  Nature,  first  Knight-maker  then  as  now, 
(For  Kings  were  but  her  servants  and  are  still,) 

Put  her  great  seal  of  Knighthood  on  your  brow, 
And  we  behold  you  sacred  to  her  will. 

Knowing  why  on  your  thigh  the  sword  is  seen 

And  on  your  hair  the  civic  wreath  is  green. 

189 


THE  UNBENDED  BOW. 

In  some  old  realm,  we  read,  wlien  war  had  come, 
The  bended  bow,  a  warlike  sign,  was  sent 

Across  the  land — a  summoner  fierce  but  dumb ; 
When  peace  return'd  the  bow  was  pass'd  unbent. 

Oh,  sacred  Land !  not  many  years  ago 

(The  symbol  breathes  its  meaning  evermore), 

Thy  holy  summons,  came  the  bended  bow — 
Thy  fiery  bearers  moved  from  door  to  door. 

Then  sprang  thy  brave  from  threshold  and  from  hearth ; 

Their  angry  footsteps  sounded,  moving  far, 
As  when  an  earthquake  moves  across  the  earth ; 

Shone  on  thy  hills  the  flame-lit  tents  of  war. 

0  tender  wife,  in  all  thy  weakness  stern 

With  the  great  purpose  which  thy  husband  drew ; 
0  mother  dreaming  of  thy  son's  return, 

Strong  with  the  arm  whose  strength  thy  country 
knew ; 

190 


THE  UNBENDED  BOW. 

0  maiden,  proud  to  hold  a  hero's  name 

Close  in  thy  prayerful  silence,  blameless :  lo, 

Transfigured  in  the  light  of  love  and  fame, 
They  come,  the  bearers  of  the  unbended  bow  I 

"The  strife  is  hush'd,  0  Land  ! " — this  voice  is  plain- 
"  The  bow  of  Peace  is  borne  from  door  to  door : 

May  thy  dread  power  be  never  tried  again ; 
But  let  thine  arrows  shine  for  evermore.'* 

191 


FOOTSTEPS   RETURNING. 


17 


RIDING   THE   HORSE   TO   MARKET. 

Old  miracles  happen  every  day: 
That  nothing  's  new  in  earth  or  air 
It  needs  no  Solomon  to  say. 

Wonderful  to  the  foaling  mare, 
Was  dropp'd  a  colt  of  marvelous  mettle. 
'Twas  common  stock,  both  dam  and  sire. 
His  mane  was  like  a  flying  fire 
When  in  the  unbridled  fields  he  flew, 
And  some  believed  him  winged,  too. 
The  use  of  such  a  skittish  creature 
The  village  folk  could  hardly  settle; 
No  rider  dared  his  dangerous  back 
Save  one,  a  youth,  whose  mate  he  seem'd, 
Who  shunn'd  like  him  the  dusty  track 
With  something  of  a  kindred  nature — 
A  boy  who  did  not  well  but  dream'd, 
A  vagabond  with  half-shut  eyes 
Who  would  not  sow  in  Paradise : 

195 


RIDING   THE   HORSE   TO    MARKET. 

To  this  one  as  his  rider  bow'd 
The  flying-footed — humble,  proud. 

'Twas  plain  he  was  not  fit  to  plow; 

For  lead  or  wheel  horse  on  the  road 

In  vain  were  all  attempts  to  break  him — 

(To  lead  right  willing  he,  in  truth. 

Where  none  could  follow  him !)     Forsooth, 

He  balk'd  and  scorn'd  the  curse  or  goad ! 

"  He  's  good  to  look  at,  that  is  clear, 

But  little  profit  anyhow" — 

A  wrinkle  eross'd  the  farmer's  brow — 

"And  so  we'll  find  him  rather  dear. 

He  eats  enough — Lord  knows — we  knowl 

Here!  mount  your  run-away  and  go — 

To-morrow  to  the  market  take  himl" 

The  saying,  then  the  doing :  rare 
The  splendors  of  the  morning  show'd, 
When  ready  for  the  journey  there 
Stood  horse  and  rider  on  the  road, 
"For  how  much  shall  I  sell  him?"  said 
The  youth  with  pangs  of  dumb  regret: 
"As  much,"  the  old  man  hot  and  red, 
"As  he  will  bring  and  you  will  get!" 
196 


RIDING   THE    HORSE   TO    MARKET. 

With  many  a  shying  make-pretense, 
As  half  in  earnest,  half  in  play, 
At  sliding  nothings  on  the  way. 
With  dainty  prance  and  flame-like  bound, 
Aerial  miles  of  flying  fence, 
The  dust  behind,  the  wind  before, 
Townward  the  horse  his  rider  bore — 
Within  the  air,  upon  the  ground. 
At  length  at  day's  most  noisy  heat 
They  enter'd  in  the  market  street; 
Among  the  buyers  soon  they  come. 
When — strange  that  it  should  happen  so, 
But  so  it  often  happens — lo, 
The  crowd  for  praise  or  blame  are  dumb : 
The  mei'its  of  the  matchless  steed, 
Unrecognized,  have  little  heed. 
At  last  one  cried — "What  have  we  here? 
A  beggar  come  to  market,  clear ! " 
"What  sorry  jade  is  that?"  another. 
And,  strange  ! — how  strange  it  seem'd,  indeed  I 
Behold,  the  wondrous-mettled  steed 
Has  lost  the  spirit  late  so  plain 
In  forehead,  foot,  and  mien  and  mane ; 
His  eyes  are  dull,  his  flank  no  more 
Shines  with  the  sunshine,  as  before  ; 

197 


RIDING   THE    HORSE   TO    MARKET. 

Their  breath  his  nostrils  lose  or  smother; 

His  ribs  look  out,  his  head  is  dropp'd, 

And,  standing  lost  in  public  gaze. 

His  heavenly  pulses  flutter,  stopp'd. 

"You  want  to  sell?"  a  jockey  says — 

"  I  think,  whatever  be  your  price, 

Your  buyer  makes  the  sacrifice." 

"  What  are  his  good  points  ? — let  us  know  them." 

"  As  for  his  oats — why,  let  him  show  them ! " 

"How  many  minutes  make  his  mile?" 

"  I  have  a  dray-horse  just  his  mate  ! " 

"  Here,  smith,  is  something  for  your  doing : 

What  hoofs  ! — he  needs  a  deal  of  shoeing  I " 

And  one,  a  punner,  passing  late, 

"This  was  the  winged  horse,  I  vow: 

That  he  "s  gone  up — you  see  it  now  I " 

Spoke  with  a  self-perceiving  smile. 

*'  Speaking  of  wings,"  another  cries, 

"  His  can't  be  seen,  you  see :  perhaps 

His  ears,  which  can  be  seen,  he  flaps 

And  thinks  him  flying — from  the  flies  I " 

The  jockey's  scorn,  the  jeerer's  aim, 
Meanwhile,  the  horse  and  rider  both, 
In  mutual  weakness,  mutual  shame, 

198 


RIDING   THE    HORSE    TO    MARKET. 

Hear — for  they  must,  however  loth. 
Till — at  the  last,  when,  weary  grown. 
The  crowd  disperse  and  leave  them  there 
Unbought  within  the  mart  alone — 
Awaken'd  into  buoyant  air 
From  something  like  a  dream  of  fame, 
A  poet  sees  the  sultry  gleam 
Of  morning  on  the  city  flame, 
Far-off,  and  that  deliverance  came 
Thanks  God :  the  Pegasus  he  strode 
And  to  the  dusty  market  rode 
Was  the  va;^e  Nothing  of  his  dream ' 

199 


THE  FIRST  TRYST. 

She  pulls  a  rose  from  her  rose-tree, 
Kissing  its  soul  to  him — 

Far  over  years,  far  over  dreams 
And  tides  of  chances  dim. 

He  plucks  from  his  heart  a  poem ; 

A  flower-sweet  messenger, 
Far  over  years,  far  over  dreams, 

Flutters  its  soul  to  her. 

These  are  the  world-old  lovers, 
Clasped  in  one  twilight's  gleam : 

Yet  he  is  but  a  dream  to  her. 
And  she  a  poet's  dream. 
200 


THE  BURIED  ORGAN. 


Fak  in  a  valley  green  and  lone, 

Lying  mthin  some  legend  old, 
Sometimes  is  heard  an  Organ's  tone. 

Trembling,  into  the  silence  roll'd : 
In  vanished  years  (the  legend  stands) 

To  save  it  from  the  unhallowing  prey 
Of  foeman's  sacrilegious  hands, 

The  monks  their  Organ  bore  away. 


None  knows  the  spot  wherein  they  laid 
That  body  of  the  heavenly  soul 

Of  Music :  deep  in  forest  shade, 
Forgotten,  lies  the  ecrave  they  stole ; 

But  oftentimes,  in  Morning  gold. 

Or  through  the  Twilight's  hushing  air, 

Within  that  valley,  green  and  old, 

The  Organ's  soul  arises  there. 
201 


THE    BURIED    ORGAN. 

Oh,  low  and  sweet,  and  strange,  and  wild, 

It  whispers  to  the  holier  air, 
Gentle  as  lispings  of  a  child — 

Mild  as  a  mother's  breathless  prayer 
While  silence  trembles,  sweet  and  low: 

Then  rapture  bursts  into  the  skies. 
And  chanting  angels,  winging  slow 

On  wings  of  music,  seem  to  rise ! 

The  herdsman  sometimes,  all  alone, 

Is  lost  within  that  haunted  air: 
He  hears  the  buried  Organ's  tone — 

His  hands  are  cross'd,  his  breath  is  prayer! 
And,  while  into  his  heart  it  steals. 

With  hushing  footsteps,  downcast  eyes, 
Some  grand  cathedral's  awe  he  feels — 

A  church  of  air,  and  earth,  and  skies ! 

Often,  when  the  sweet  wand  of  Spring 

Has  fiU'd  the  woods  with  flowers  unsown. 
Or  Autumn's  dreamy  breeze's  wing 

Flutters  through  falling  leaves,  alone 
I  wander  forth,  and  leave  behind 

The  city's  dust,  the  sultry  glare: 
A  lonely  dell,  far-off,  I  fiud — 

I  know  the  Buried  Organ  there  1 
202 


THE   BURIED    ORGAN. 


Within  the  city's  noisy  air 

I  leave  the  creeds  their  Sabbath  bells ; 
I  cross  my  hands,  my  breath  is  prayer, 

Hearing  that  Organ's  mystic  swells. 
The  sweet  birds  sing,  the  soft  winds  blow. 

The  flowers  have  whispers  low,  apart : 
All  wake  within  me,  loud  or  low, 

God's  buried  Organ — ^in  my  heart ! 
203 


TWO  PATRONS. 

"  What  shall  I  sing,"  I  sigh'd  and  said, 
"  That  men  shall  know  me  when  my  name 

Is  lost  with  kindred  lips  and  dead 
Are  lam:els  of  familiar  fame?" 

Below,  a  violet  in  the  dew 

Breathed  through  the  dark  its  vague  perfume ; 
Above,  a  star  in  quiet  blue 

Touch'd  with  a  gracious  ray  the  gloom. 

"  Sing,  friend,  of  me,"  the  violet  sigh'd, 

"  That  I  may  haunt  your  grave  with  love ;" 

"  Sing,  friend,  of  me,"  the  star  replied, 

"  That  I  may  Hght  the  dark  above." 

204 


GENIUS  LOCI. 

Yes,  this  is  the  place  where  my  boyhood 
Saw  its  beautiful  season  depart: 

The  butterfly  flutter'd  in  sunshine, 
The  chrysalis  lies  in  my  heart! 

Still  green  are  the  hills  in  the  distance, 
And  breathing  of  Summer  the  farms, 

But  the  years  take  the  Present  forever 
To  the  Past  with  their  shadowy  arms. 

I  wander  in  pathways  familiar: 
Old  faces  forget,  or  are  blind; 

The  footsteps  of  strangers  have  trodden 
The  footprints  I  deem'd  I  would  find. 

Come  back  to  me,  beautiful  visions! 

Steal  over  me,  lovelier  sky! 
With  the  flower-like  soul  of  my  boyhood, 

Blossom,  sweet  days  gone  by  1 
205 


GENIUS   LOCI. 

My  boyhood,  come  back!     In  tbe  sunsbine 
A  boop  is  tbe  world  of  bis  care: 

He  gazes  at  me  for  a  moment, 
And  passes  away  in  tbe  air! 

Come  back!     From  tbe  scbool  tbat  is  ended 
Boy-faces  rusb  joyous  and  brigbt: 

One,  only,  among  tbem  remembers 
And  vanisbes  into  tbe  ligbt! 

Come  back!     With  a  kite  in  bis  heaven 
His  heart's  happy  wings  are  agleam: 

He  hearkens  my  call  for  a  moment, 
And  flashes  away  with  my  dream  I 
206 


APART. 

At  sea  are  tossing  ships ; 

On  shore  are  dreaming  shells, 
And  the  waiting  heart  and  the  loving  lips, 

Blossoms  and  bridal  bells. 

At  sea  are  sails  a-gleam ; 

On  shore  are  longing  eyes, 
And  the  far  horizon's  haunting  dream 

Of  ships  that  sail  the  skies. 

At  sea  are  masts  that  rise 

Like  spectres  from  the  deep ; 
On  shore  are  the  ghosts  of  drowning  cries 

That  cross  the  waves  of  sleep. 

At  sea  are  wrecks  a-strand ; 

On  shore  are  shells  that  moan, 
Old  anchors  buried  in  barren  sand, 

Sea-mist  and  dreams  alone. 
207 


AFTEK  A  WHILE. 

On  the  cold  hills  the  moon  lies  white, 
The  ghostly  Frost  arises  bright ; 
Lost  winds  wail  in  the  homeless  air, 
Wandering  wearily,  every -where  : 
But,  wrapt  in  dreams  of  summer  mirth. 
My  cricket  sings  upon  the  hearth; 
My  heart  to  dreams  his  dreams  beguile — 
'■'■  After  a  while,  after  a  whiles 

Below  the  embers  ashes  darkle ; 
Above,  the  lithe  flames  leap  and  sparkle, 
Dancing  to  all  fantastic  forms 
Of  all  that  gladdens,  cheers  and  warms; 
And,  singing  to  my  fancies  sweet, 
The  cricket's  spell  the  flames  repeat; 
My  heart  to  dreams  their  dreams  beguile — 
'■^ After  a  while,  after  a  while." 

I  shut  my  eyes :  my  life  I  see — 
Oh,  miracle  ! — ^a  blossoming  tree ! 

208 


AFTER   A   WHILE. 

(The  world's  sad  winds,  that  cried  for  rest, 
Cradled  in  blossoms  slumber  bless'd;) 
And  from  its  fragant-bearted  May 
Some  sweet  bird  joins  the  cricket's  lay; 
Oh,  tender  songs  my  dreams  beguile — 

'■'•After  a  wliile,  after  a  while." 

Winds,  rock  tbe  world  in  fairy  dreams ! 
Rise,  Frost,  and  haunt  the  sleeping  streams ! 
Below  the  embers  ashes  darkle ; 
Above,  the  lithe  flames  leap  and  sparkle; 
Sweet  bird,  bright  flames,  blithe  cricket  start 
The  same  dear  song  of  hearth  and  heart! — 
I  whisper  low,  with  sigh  and  smile, 

'^ After  a  while,  after  a  while." 
18  209 


TO 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    YOUNG    MAN, 

Beloved  One — whose  gentle,  floating  form 
Visits  my  dreams  in  blissful  heart  and  eyes — 

Where  art  thou,  Love?     My  heart  is  beating  warm: 
From  dreams  alone,  I  rise ! 

Long  have  I  known  thee  :  first  I  saw  thy  face. 

With  laughter  ringing  through  thy  girlhood  years, 

Kissing  the  Future  with  a  buoyant  grace, 
The  Past  with  lighted  tears. 

Come  from  my  dreaming  to  my  waking  heart! 

Awake,  within  my  soul  there  stands  alone 
Thy  marble  soul :  in  lovely  dreams  apart, 

Thy  sweet  heart  fills  the  stone  ! 

Oft  I  have  trembled  with  a  maiden  near, 

In  the  dear  dream  that  thou  wast  come  at  last, 

Veil'd  in  her  face:  oh,  empty  atmosphere! — 
Those  dreams  woke  in  the  Past! 

210 


'TO 


It  may  be,  tliou  hast  ne'er  liad  mortal  birth, 

Or  childhood's  wings  to   Heaven   with   thee   have 
flown, 

My  Eve  in  Paradise!     O'er  all  the  Earth 
Must  Adam  walk  alone? 

Oh,  that  thou  breathest  Earth  or  Heaven,  I  know; 

I  call,  like  Orpheus,  into  shadowy  air: 
Where  art  thou,  dear?    My  heart  makes  answer  low — 

Its  bridal  chamber — "Where?" 

Oh,  waken  in  my  morning  thy  pure  eyes ! 

Thy  voice  from  angel-air  of  dreams  remove. 
Sweet  Chance !  blow  those  strange  seeds  of  Paradise 

Together,  flowering  love ! 

While  yet  my  life  is  in  warm  bloom,  appear ; 

Come  ere  the  first  veil  from  the  years  depart. 
Cottage  with  thee  to  me  were  palace.     Dear, 

Thy  palace  be  my  heart! 

211 


MELANCHOLY. 

Where'er  I  laugh  a  buried  echo  sighs; 

Some  coffin  full  of  ashes 
Uplifts  its  dead;  a  sea-deep  sorrow  lies 

Under  a  wave  that  flashes. 

I  know  not  why  this  moan  steals  into  May, 

To  make  its  joy  so  hollow; 
Some  woful  hearse  keeps  hushing  through  the  day— 

My  thoughts,  dark  mourners,  follow. 

212 


FOLDED    DOWN. 

We  read  together — here  the  book, 

(Eyes  tender-lidded,  drooping,  brown  I) 

The  bees  were  in  the  roses.     Look, 
The  leaf  is  folded  down. 

It  is  the  story,  dear  and  old, 

Whisper'd  forever  warm  and  new : 
The  world  is  in  its  age  of  gold 

When  two  are  lovers  true. 

We  read  together :  in  the  sun 

The  brooklet  laugh'd  through  grass  and  flowers, 
All  birds  were  singing ;  two  in  one 

We  clasp'd  the  fragrant  hours. 

The  poet's  flower — the  rose  of  Love, 
Whence  all  our  costliest  honey  flows — 

Was  rooted  in  the  book :  above, 
Within  our  hearts  the  rose  I 
213 


FOLDED   DOWN. 

The  poet's  dream — the  vision,  Love, 
For  which  all  sleeping  wake,  I  deem — 

Shadow'd  each  page  with  wings :  above, 
Within  our  souls  the  dream ! 

We  read  of  Loss  that  leaves  the  heart 
A  sea-shell  on  vague  shores  of  fate, 

Murmuring,  dumb :  there  walk'd  apart 
A  maiden  desolate. 

A  sail  shone  in  the  horizon's  gleam 

Where  the  moon  came — a  twilight  ghost. 

The  specter  of  a  vanish 'd  dream 
That  haunts  a  lonely  coast. 

What  spider  from  the  rose  you  kiss'd 
Crawl'd,  that  we  read  no  more  that  day? 

We  learn  in  many  an  autumn  mist 
The  brightness  of  the  May. 

I  turn  the  page — behold  the  prize : 
The  years  like  funeral  ravens  flown. 

The  sail 's  reflected  in  the  skies ; 
The  shell  has  lost  its  moan. 
214 


FOLDED   DOWN. 

From  shade  to  sun,  to  bliss  from  grief! 

December's  warm'd  by  gracious  May; 
Ob,  fools  !  we  miss'd  tbe  golden  leaf. 

I  read  alone  to-day. 

Is  it  a  memory  or  a  dream? 

(Eyes  tender-lidded,  drooping,  brown  !) 
In  tbat  sad  poem,  Life,  I  deem, 

Tbe  leaf  was  folded  down. 
2io 


THE   LOVE-LETTEK. 

I  GREET  thee,  loving  letter — 
Unopen'd  kiss  thee  free, 

And  dream  her  lips  within  thee 
Give  back  the  kiss  to  me  I 

The  fragrant  little  rose-leaf, 
She  sends  by  thee,  is  come : 

Ah,  in  her  heart  was  blooming 
The  rose  she  stole  it  from  I 
216 


CONFIDANTS. 

All  thinsrs  that  know  a  lover's  heart 
it 

Know  the  warm  secret  closed  in  mine; 

From  all  things  eager  whispers  start — 

"  We  know,  we  know  it !  she  is  thine." 

The  swallow  seeking  southern  skies, 

Where  some  clear  summer  waters  shine, 

Circles  my  tropic  dream  and  flies. 
Singing,  "I  fly,  but  she  is  thine." 

Pale  flowers,  which  Autumn's  lips  have  kiss  d, 
Whose  far-off  May  gives  back  no  sign, 

Murmur  farewell — their  souls  in  mist — 
But  smile,  in  dying,  "she  is  thine." 

The  cricket  from  my  hearth  at  night 
Thrills  the  vague  hours  with  carols  fine. 

Singing  the  darkness  into  light, 
"After  a  while,  and  she  is  thine." 
19  217 


THE  DESERTED  SMITHY. 

At  tlie  end  of  the  lane  and  in  sight  of  the  mill, 
Is  the  smithy ;  I  pass  it  to-day,  in  a  dream 

Of  the  days  whose  red  blood  in  my  bosom  is  warm 
While  the  real  alone  as  the  vanish'd  I  deem : 

For  the  years  they  may  crimible  to  dust  in  the  heart. 

But   the   roses  will  bloom  though  the  gravestones 
depart. 

In  the  loneliest  evenings  of  long  ago, 

The  smithy  was  dear  in  the  darkness  to  me. 
When  the  clouds  were  all  heaping  the  world  with 
their  snow. 
And  the  wind  shiver' d  over  dead  leaves  on    the 
tree ; 
Through  the  snow-shower  it  seemed  to  be  bursting 

aflame : 
How  the    sparks  in  the  dark    from    the    chimney 


came ! 


218 


THE   DESERTED   SMITHY. 

It  was  dear  in  the  past — and  still  it  is  dear, 
In  the  memory  old  of  the  vanishing  time, 
When  the  hinging  and  hanging,  and  clinging  and 
clanging, 
In  the   heart   of  my  boyhood,   were  music   and 
rhyme ; 
When  the  bellows  groan'd  to  the  furnace-glow. 
And  the   lights  thro'  the  chinks  danced  out  in  the 

snow. 

« 

The  irons  within  on  the  anvils  were  ringing : 
There  were  glowing  arms  in  the  bursting  gleam ; 

And  shadows  were  glowering  away  in  the  gloaming. 
That,  suddenly  bounding  to  giants,  would  seem 

Now  out  of  the  open  doorways  to  spring, 

Now  up  in  the  rafters  vanishing. 

The  smith  I  remember  :  oh,  many  a  smile 

Has  played  on  his  lips  with  me,  and  kind 
Were  the  words  that  would  lighten  the  gloom  of  his 
face — 
His  face,  at  the  memory,  gleams  in  my  mind  ! — 
With  a  heart    that    could  beat  in  the    heart  of  a 

boy, 
A.  heart  for  his  sorrow,  a  heart  for  his  joy  ! 

219 


THE    DESERTED    SMITHY. 

Adown  from  the  farm  of  my  father  once  moro 
(That  so  long  has  forgotten  us  up  on  the  hill) — 

With  the  wings  in  my  blood  to  the  bound  of  the 
steed, 
That  passes  the  breezes  so  merry  and  shrill — 

I  seem  to  be  flying  ;  but,  suddenly, 

In  the  Past,  alone,  is  my  memory  ! 

In  a  dream ! — in  a  dream  !     But  I  pass  it  to-day  : 
No  longer  the  furnace  is  bursting  with  flame ; 

No  longer  the  music  comes  out  of  the  door, 
That,  long  ago,  to  the  schoolboy  came  : 

The  winds  whisper  low  thro'  the  window  and  door, 

The  chimney  is  part  of  the  dust  of  the  floor. 

Phoebe  Morris  !  sweet  Phoebe  !  the  sweetest  of  girls 
That  brighten'd  old  dreams  with  a  beautiful  face  ! — 

It  may  be  she  smiled  from  her  father's  lips, 
And  blossom'd  her  smile  in  the  dusky  place  ! 

Ah,  she  smiles,  to-day,  in  my  boyhood  for  me. 

With  her  lips  that  are  kissing — a  memory ! 

220 


FALLEN   LEAVES. 

I  LOVE  to  steal  my  way 
Tlirougli  the  bright  woods,  when  Autumn's  work  is 

done 
And  through  the  tree-tops  all  the  dream-like  day 

Breathes  the  soft  golden  sun; 

When  all  is  hush'd  and  still, 
Only  a  few  last  leaves,  fluttering  slow 
Down  the  warm  air  with  ne'er  a  breeze's  will — 

A  ghost  of  sound  below; 

When  naught  of  song  is  heard. 
Save  the  jay  laughing  while  all  nature  grieves. 
Or  the  lone  chirp  of  some  forgotten  bird 

Among  the  fallen  leaves. 

Around  me  every-where 
Lie  leaves  that  trembled  green  the  Summer  long, 
Holding  the  rainbow's  tears  in  sunny  air, 

And  roof 'd  the  Summer's  song. 

221 


FALLEN   LEAVES. 

Why  shun  my  steps  to  tread 
These  silent  hosts  that  every-where  are  strown, 
As  if  my  feet  were  walking  'mong  the  dead, 

And  I  alive  alone? 

Hast  no  bright  trees,  0  Past! 
Through  whose  bare  boughs,  once  green,  the  sunshine 

grieves? 
No  hopes  that  flutter'd  in  the  autumnal  blast, 
No  memories — Fallen  Leaves? 

222 


AN   ECHO. 

"Come  back,"  I  sigli'd— 

The  flower 
I  dropp'd  upon  the  tide 

Was  vanish'd  many  an  hour. 
"Come  back,"  the  Echo  sigh'd 

"Come  back,"  I  cried — 

The  love, 
Flower-like  I  cast  aside, 
An  angel  bears  above. 
"Come  back,"  the  Echo  cried. 
223 


IN   OCTOBER. 

A  FLUSh'd  cathedral,  grand  witt  loneliness, 
G-loomy  with  light  and  bright  with  shadow,  seems 
Thy  catholic  air,  October.     Holiest  gleams 
Alight  like  ang-els  in  each  dim  recess 
Through  the  stain'd  oriels  of  the  east  and  west ; 
Thy  floors  float  radiant  with  flutterings 
Of  moving  shadows,  ghosts  of  glorious  wings ; 
Some  organ's  soul  arises  in  the  breast 
Of  him  who  walks  thy  aisles  in  revery  bound  : 
The  stops  of  silence  tremble  into  sound. 
Lo,  Nature  brings  her  dead  for  burial  rite ! 
Upon  thy  solemn  altars  dress' d  for  Death 
She  lays  her  beautiful ;  the  mother's  brow 
Is  bow'd,  while  for  her  darling  ones  she  grieves 
And  o'er  their  burial  breathes  her  tenderest  breath 
As  o'er  their  baptism  in  the  April  light; 
And  Autumn,  gorgeous  preacher,  murmurs  now 
Sermons  of  dying  flowers  and  falling  leaves. 

224 


THE   BIRD?   OF   LONGING. 

The  mournful  Birds  are  flown 
That  flutter'd  in  my  breast 

Througli  all  the  days  of  Spring, 
And  fill'd  me  with  unrest. 

The  Birds  of  Longing  wild ! 

They  came  in  April  skies, 
Among  the  blossoming  boughs, 

The  winged  prophecies. 

Of  unknown  summer  lands 

They  sang  their  haunting  dreams- 
Poor  tropic  birds,  asleep 

To  wake  in  Arctic  gleams ! 

"Whence  came  ye,  Birds?"  I  said: 
They  sang,  "We  have  no  home: 

Lost  are  the  nests  we  loved — 
Wo  long,  and  long  must  roam. 
225 


THE    BIRDS    OP    LONGING. 

"  Blown  by  the  vernal  winds, 
Warm  blossom-bearers,  we 

From  soul  to  soul  in  Spring 
Drift  over  land  and  sea." 


THE  GRAVE  OF  ROSE. 

I  CAME  to  find  her  blithe  and  bright, 
Breathing  the  household  full  of  bloom, 

Wreathing  the  fireside  with  delight — 
I  found  her  in  her  tomb ! 

I  came  to  find  her  gathering  flowers — 
Their  fragrant  souls,  so  pure  and  dear, 

Haunting  her  face  in  lonely  hours: 
Her  single  flower  is  here ! 

For,  look:  the  gentle  name  that  shows 
Her  love,  her  loveliness,  and  bloom, 

(Her  only  epitaph — a  rose)  — 
Is  growing  on  her  tomb! 
227 


MOTHS. 

At  morn  I  walk  in  sunshine  warm  and  tender  ; 

My  eyes  look  into  Fairyland  for  hours  : 
The  butterflies  with  Eastern  lust  and  splendor 

Grow  winged  counterparts  to  wingless  flowers. 

At  noon  I  dream  m  meadows  sweet  and  sunny  ; 

My  heart  with  summer  songs  and  perfume  glows  : 
The  bees  on  sunburnt  voyages  for  honey 

Reach  their  Hesperides  in  every  rose. 

At  eve  I  write  by  restless  lamplight  sitting ; 

My  soul  is  full  of  shadowy,  subtile  things  : 
The  ghostly  moths  around  my  lamp  are  flitting, 

Guests  of  the  light  that,  coming,  lose  their  wings. 

My  poems,  butterflies  at  morning  gleaming. 

And  bees  at  noon,  are  but  vague  moths  at  night : 
Look,  the  flame  beckons — from  the  darkness  stream- 
ing. 
Wingless  they  drop  at  thresholds  of  the  light ! 

228 


STEPS   OF   GHOSTS. 

In  the  olden  mansion  lying, 

That  knew  me  long  ago, 
I  see  the  far  white  river 

Shivering  in  the  snow. 

The  moon,  so  close  by  the  window. 
Freezes  in  the  trees  with  her  lighi— 

A  glitter  of  motionless  silence, 
All  the  ice-lit  branches  bright ! 

Jarring  the  drowsy  stillness. 

There  are  footsteps  on  the  stair, 

Lifting  their  ghostly  echoes 

From  the  chambers  every-where  I 

How  near  they  startle  the  stairway ! 

I  feel  the  opening  door! 
Now,  far  and  fainter,  and  dying, 

They  echo  in  me  no  more  ! 
229 


STEPS    OP    GHOSTS. 

In  a  moment  the  door  will  open! 

How  near  ttey  grow  again ! — 
They  have  left  the  ghost  of  their  silence 

Walking  within  my  brain  ! 

Upon  the  haunted  stairway 
I  have  heard  them  oft  before; 

In  this  olden  house,  returning, 
They  haunt  me  evermore. 

Strangers  have  never  heard  them — 

I  know  they  all  are  mine, 
Rising,  0  heart,  and  dying 

On  that  haunted  stair  of  thine. 

To  me  forever  returning 

Myself  forever  fled, 
Startling  the  stair  forever  and  ever, 

I  hear  my  footsteps  dead  I 

0  life,  make  braver  thy  beating! 

The  terror  on  the  stair 
Is  the  long,  long  dread  procession 

That  follows  thee  every -where  I 
230 


THE  STRANGE  ORGANIST 

Deep  in  the  dim  cathedral  gloom, 
Where  incense  all  the  ages  rose, 

I  walk,  alone.     The  mystic  bloom 
Of  saintly  silence  round  me  glows. 

High  Church  of  Song  1     0  hallow'd  place, 
Where  haunt  the  hymns  of  bards  of  old  1 

Light  shone  on  many  a  lifted  face 
When  holy  floods  of  music  roll'd. 

Deep  in  the  dim  cathedral  hush 
I  stand  alone,  the  Organ's  keys 

Touching  with  wandering  fingers — blush, 

Sad  soul,  what  harmonies  are  these  I 

231 


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